The question followed us back to Portland.
Had Jessica’s miscarriage been natural?
Or had someone intervened?
Neither of us could leave it alone.
Maya warned us not to assume the worst.
That sounded reasonable.
It also sounded impossible.
Jessica met me at the hospital the next morning.
She looked exhausted.
So did I.
We stood outside Dad’s room without touching.
For eight years, touching had been automatic.
Now every gesture required thought.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Bad question.”
“Fair.”
She held a folder.
“Medical records.”
“You got them?”
“Portal access.”
She handed them to me.
At eleven weeks, Jessica had been admitted for bleeding.
Ultrasound confirmed fetal loss.
No obvious cause.
Treatment routine.
No strange medication documented.
“That’s good,” I said.
“Maybe.”
“What?”
“There’s an amended lab entry.”
She showed me.
One blood test had been repeated.
Original result missing.
Replacement signed by a technician whose name had been redacted in later records.
Maya joined us.
“Hospital is retrieving archived audit logs.”
“How long?”
“Hours.”
Jessica stared through the window into Dad’s room.
“I don’t know if I want them.”
“The logs?”
“The answer.”
I understood.
For years, the miscarriage had been a private grief.
Painful.
Unfair.
But natural.
If someone had caused it, every memory would change.
If no one had, then we would have spent days poisoning the memory ourselves.
“There’s no good version.”
“No.”
Dad called us inside.
He had been cleared for discharge later that day.
Against everyone’s wishes, he looked pleased.
“I’m escaping.”
“You’re going home with someone.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Ethan.”
“You nearly died.”
“I’ve been nearly dying for days. It’s getting repetitive.”
Jessica smiled despite herself.
Dad saw.
Something softened in his face.
“Jess.”
She looked at him.
It was the first time I heard Dad call her that.
Not Jessica.
Not Victoria.
Jess.
“You knew?” she asked.
“About Linda?”
“Yes.”
“No. About me.”
Dad understood.
“That you weren’t Elena’s?”
“I suspected only recently.”
“And you still hated me.”
“I never hated you.”
“You warned Ethan not to trust me.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds adjacent.”
Dad sighed.
“I thought Victor had sent you into his life.”
“He did, indirectly.”
“I know now.”
“And you still never confronted me.”
“I needed proof.”
“You all love proof after decades of silence.”
Dad accepted that.
“Yes.”
Jessica looked toward the floor.
“Did you know about the pregnancy note?”
“No.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
Dad did not answer immediately.
Jessica laughed.
“Wrong delay.”
“I would now.”
“Now.”
“Yes.”
She looked away.
That word carried all the damage.
Now.
Now, after lies.
Now, after bodies.
Now, after every secret had become impossible to maintain.
Dad said quietly, “I’m sorry about the baby.”
Jessica’s face tightened.
“So am I.”
The lab audit arrived that afternoon.
Nothing obviously criminal.
The missing result had been a clerical duplication.
The technician’s identity was found.
Retired.
No connection to Cole.
The payment to Dr. Kline came from a consulting firm linked to Linda—but for an unrelated malpractice case.
Maya verified the dates.
No evidence tied it to Jessica’s treatment.
The miscarriage had almost certainly been natural.
Jessica read the conclusion twice.
Then sat down.
I waited.
She began crying.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just years of grief returning after being dragged through suspicion.
I sat beside her.
For a moment, I nearly put my arm around her.
I stopped.
She noticed.
That hurt more than if she hadn’t.
“You can,” she whispered.
I did.
She leaned against me.
Not as wife.
Not yet anything else.
Simply as someone who had shared that loss with me.
“We didn’t lose the baby because of them,” she said.
“No.”
“They don’t get that.”
“No.”
It was a small piece of our past returned to us.
Maybe the first.
Cole’s index investigations expanded.
Arrests.
Suspensions.
Search warrants.
News leaked.
Reporters gathered outside the hospital.
The Morales name resurfaced publicly.
So did mine.
So did Jessica’s.
Elena’s survival remained sealed for the moment.
Charlotte’s identity too.
Police wanted time.
For once, we agreed.
Christopher survived surgery.
The bullet had missed major vessels.
He woke asking for Margaret.
Dad visited.
I went with him.
Christopher looked older than when I first saw him.
Pain stripped away some of the hardness.
Dad stood beside the bed.
“Chris.”
Christopher opened his eyes.
“You came.”
“Against medical advice.”
“You look terrible.”
“So do you.”
Family resemblance in temperament, if not face.
For several moments, neither knew what to say.
Then Christopher asked, “Did you hear Margaret’s recording?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t abandon me.”
“No.”
“I wasted years hating her.”
Dad sat carefully.
“She wasted years afraid to tell you.”
“That isn’t better.”
“No.”
Christopher looked at him.
“You knew she had a son.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you look harder?”
Dad answered honestly.
“I had Ethan.”
The truth hurt even when understandable.
“I was trying to keep one child alive.”
Christopher nodded slowly.
“At least you don’t lie well anymore.”
“I’m improving.”
They almost smiled.
Then Christopher told us something important.
Linda had not acted alone after the Salem house.
Before her arrest, she had sent a package.
“To who?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What package?”
“Drive.”
“What’s on it?”
“Cole’s current contact list.”
Maya had copies from Eric.
But Linda’s version might include annotations.
“Why send it?”
“Insurance.”
“To make sure someone can expose everyone if she’s prosecuted?”
“Probably.”
“Who received it?”
Christopher thought.
“She said, ‘He owes me.’”
“Who?”
“No name.”
Dad asked, “Thomas?”
“No.”
“Cole?”
“No.”
“Keene?”
Christopher shook his head.
“She said the person had escaped Victor years ago.”
Elena?
Daniel?
Arthur?
No.
Someone else.
We searched old records.
People who broke with Victor.
Lawyers.
Employees.
Family.
Then Maya found one.
James Morales.
Victor’s younger brother.
I had never heard his name.
Neither had Jessica.
Elena had.
“James.”
Her voice changed when Maya called.
“Who was he?”
“My youngest brother.”
“You never mentioned him.”
“He left.”
“When?”
“Before Ethan was born.”
“Why?”
“He hated Victor.”
“Where did he go?”
“East Coast.”
“Alive?”
Maya checked.
Yes.
Seventy-two.
Living in Virginia.
“What did he know?”
Elena sounded unsure.
“Enough to leave.”
Police contacted him.
James denied receiving anything from Linda.
Then he called back twenty minutes later.
He had lied.
Of course.
The package had arrived that morning.
He opened it while investigators listened.
Inside was a hard drive.
And a handwritten note from Linda.
If I fall, finish what Elena started.
The drive was encrypted.
Password hint:
FIRST CHILD.
Everyone assumed Rebecca.
Wrong.
The password failed.
Linda had lost another child.
The phrase from the fire returned.
I won’t lose another one.
Not Jessica.
Someone before Jessica.
We searched.
No birth records.
No legal records.
Then James spoke.
“I know.”
Everyone turned.
“What?”
“Linda had a son.”
Before Rebecca?
Before Jessica?
Elena stared.
“When?”
“Before she became Grey.”
“Who was the father?”
James answered.
“Victor.”
Silence.
Jessica closed her eyes.
Victor and Linda.
Another child.
“What happened to him?”
“Victor took him.”
“Where?”
“Adoption.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t want proof he had slept with his cousin.”
The password.
First child.
Name?
James gave it.
Samuel.
The drive opened.
Inside were Linda’s final records.
Names.
Payments.
Audio.
And one folder labeled S.
Samuel.
Photographs showed a boy growing into a man.
One modern photograph made my stomach drop.
I knew him.
Everyone did.
Dr. Nathan Vale.
Dad’s surgeon.
Linda’s first child.
Victor’s son.
The physician who had operated on my father.
The man listed in Cole’s current network.
He wasn’t merely compromised by gambling debt.
He was family.
Hidden family.
And Linda had sent him something hours before her arrest.
Click here to continue reading: PART 28: Dad’s Surgeon Was Linda’s First Son, and His Final Message Revealed Why He Had Stayed Inside Cole’s Network
My Father Had Never Asked Me for Money Until He Appeared at My Door With a Deadline
Part 27 of 35
