Chapter 4 - LOCKER 417
Marcus did not let me go alone.
I wanted to.
I wanted to drive directly to the storage facility, open locker 417, and tear through everything with my bare hands.
He refused.
“If Thomas Reed is frightened enough to resign and send a coded message to a law firm, we assume someone else may be looking for whatever he hid.”
I hated that he was right.
By six that evening, we were driving toward an industrial district outside the city.
Dr. Vance remained at St. Jude’s.
Julian had gone to confront Marianne despite Sienna’s warning.
Sienna had taken Miles home.
The fact that my biological son was leaving the hospital with the woman who had helped hide him from me made every instinct inside me scream.
Marcus stopped me from acting on it.
“You have biological evidence.”
“You do not yet have a custody order.”
“If you try to take the child, they will use it against you.”
So I watched Miles disappear into an elevator.
He looked over Sienna’s shoulder as the doors closed.
For one second, his eyes met mine.
I carried that image all the way to the storage facility.
Locker 417 was located inside a climate-controlled building with no attendant after five.
Marcus had obtained emergency authorization from the facility owner after showing Thomas Reed’s email and my identification.
The lock was electronic.
When the door rolled upward, I expected boxes.
There were boxes.
But there was also a small metal filing cabinet.
A printer.
Two external hard drives.
And a framed photograph.
I stepped closer.
The photograph showed me standing at a Bright Tomorrow Foundation gala three years earlier.
Julian was beside me.
Marianne stood behind us.
Thomas Reed stood near the edge.
And Sienna was smiling directly at the camera.
Someone had drawn a circle around four faces in red ink.
Mine.
Julian’s.
Marianne’s.
Sienna’s.
Beside mine, Thomas had written VICTIM.
Beside Marianne, CONTROL.
Beside Sienna, ACCESS.
Beside Julian, UNKNOWN.
I stared at that word.
Unknown.
Marcus opened the first box.
Financial records.
Invoices.
Copies of grant agreements.
The second held clinic reports.
Some belonged to me.
Most did not.
Women’s names.
Patient numbers.
Embryo counts.
Transfer dates.
Several pages carried red marks.
Marcus’s expression hardened.
“This is evidence.”
“Of what?”
“Potentially systematic fraud.”
I opened the filing cabinet.
Inside were folders arranged alphabetically.
CROSS, CLARA.
My hands shook.
I pulled it free.
The first page was my original treatment plan.
Not the version I had been given.
The next was an embryo development report.
Three viable embryos.
All graded highly.
I kept reading.
There was a handwritten note from Dr. Hale.
M.C. REQUESTS NO DIRECT PATIENT COMMUNICATION.
I stared at the initials.
M.C.
Marianne Cross.
Marcus photographed every page.
Then I found a second note.
JULIAN ADVISED.
My heart stopped.
I handed it to Marcus.
“What does that mean?”
“We don’t know.”
“He said he didn’t know.”
“This doesn’t tell us what he knew.”
“It says he was advised.”
“Advised of what?”
The question mattered.
I wanted an immediate answer.
The records refused to give one.
We searched for thirty more minutes.
Then Marcus found a flash drive taped beneath the bottom drawer.
No label.
He connected it to his encrypted laptop.
One folder appeared.
BCF.
Inside were audio files.
Dates.
Initials.
One file carried the date three days before my final consultation.
MC_PH.
Marianne Cross.
Peter Hale.
Marcus clicked it.
Static.
Then Marianne’s voice.
Clear.
Cold.
“The Cross embryo stays in the program.”
Dr. Hale answered.
“The patient will ask questions.”
“She will be told none progressed.”
“That requires altering the lab summary.”
“That is why you are being compensated.”
My stomach turned.
Dr. Hale sounded nervous.
“And Julian?”
Marianne paused.
“My son is tired of waiting.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“He has signed enough documents.”
“That could be challenged.”
“Not if Clara disappears from the marriage.”
The recording ended.
I could barely breathe.
Marcus immediately copied the file.
“That’s significant.”
I stared at the laptop.
“She planned my divorce.”
“We don’t know that.”
“She said if I disappeared from the marriage.”
“She may have meant legally.”
“Marcus.”
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
“She planned it.”
He did not disagree again.
We played the next recording.
Sienna and Marianne.
Sienna’s voice sounded younger.
Uncertain.
“I don’t understand why Clara can’t know.”
“Because she would never agree.”
“That’s her embryo.”
“She has failed repeatedly.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
“My son needs an heir.”
“Julian is having an affair with me.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re not angry?”
“Why would I be?”
There was a long silence.
Then Marianne spoke again.
“You can give him what Clara cannot.”
Sienna whispered.
“A family.”
“Yes.”
Then came the line that made my stomach drop.
“And if you want that life, you need to stop thinking like Clara’s friend.”
The recording ended.
I closed my eyes.
There was no misunderstanding.
No innocent beginning.
Sienna had known before the transfer that the embryo was mine.
Maybe she had not known everything.
But she had known enough.
“She lied at the hospital.”
Marcus nodded.
“Yes.”
I felt something inside me harden.
Not rage.
Clarity.
Sienna had carried my son knowing exactly whose biological child he was.
She had comforted me while pregnant with him.
She had chosen silence every morning for thirteen months after his birth.
Whatever love she felt for Miles did not erase that choice.
We searched the remaining audio files.
Most involved financial payments.
Some named hospital staff.
One mentioned the Denver embryo.
Dr. Hale sounded panicked.
“The third Cross embryo is scheduled for shipment.”
Marianne replied.
“Good.”
“The recipient is not part of the original agreement.”
“She doesn’t need to be.”
“Who selected her?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
A pause.
Then Marianne said something I did not understand.
“Insurance.”
The recording ended.
Marcus replayed it.
“Insurance against what?”
I shook my head.
We continued searching.
At the bottom of the folder was a scanned document from Colorado.
PATIENT RECIPIENT AGREEMENT.
The patient’s name had been blacked out.
But the address had not.
Aspen Grove Women’s Residence.
Denver, Colorado.
Marcus searched the name on his phone.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“It closed eighteen months ago.”
“What was it?”
“A private residential facility for pregnant women.”
My chest tightened.
“Pregnant women receiving fertility treatment?”
“Possibly.”
He kept reading.
“Owned by a nonprofit called New Horizons Family Services.”
“Who funds it?”
He searched.
Then looked at me.
“Bright Tomorrow Foundation.”
I stared.
“My foundation funded this?”
“Apparently.”
“I never approved it.”
“Your signature appears on the grant.”
I looked at the page.
It resembled mine.
But after everything I had seen that day, a signature meant nothing.
Marcus packed the drives.
“We need to leave.”
“There’s more.”
“We have enough to secure the unit and return with investigators.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Clara.”
“Thomas sent us here for a reason.”
“He sent us here because he wanted this preserved.”
“Then why hide it?”
Marcus looked around.
“Because he didn’t trust law enforcement yet.”
“Or because he was afraid someone inside the hospital or foundation would destroy it.”
“That is possible.”
I opened the last box.
Inside were personal items.
A burner phone.
Three passports.
All belonged to Thomas.
A train schedule.
A notebook.
I flipped through it.
Most pages contained numbers.
Then names.
Marianne.
Peter.
Sienna.
Julian.
A woman named Rachel Monroe.
I stopped.
“Who is Rachel?”
Marcus looked over.
“I don’t know.”
Her name appeared repeatedly beside the code C-17C.
RACHEL — 20 WEEKS.
RACHEL — DENVER.
RACHEL — TRANSFER CONFIRMED.
RACHEL — CONTACT LOST.
My throat tightened.
“She was pregnant.”
“Possibly.”
“With my embryo.”
“Possibly.”
I turned the page.
One final handwritten sentence.
RACHEL CALLED.
SHE KNOWS THE CHILD ISN’T HERS.
I looked at Marcus.
“Thomas spoke to her.”
“Yes.”
“Then he knows where she is.”
“If he’s alive.”
The words chilled me.
Before I could respond, the hallway lights outside the locker went dark.
Marcus immediately closed the laptop.
“Stay behind me.”
A sound echoed from the far end of the corridor.
Metal.
A door closing.
Then footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Marcus reached for his phone.
“No signal.”
I looked toward the entrance.
A shadow crossed the frosted glass.
Someone was inside the facility.
Someone who knew exactly which locker we had opened.
Marcus whispered, “Don’t say a word.”
The footsteps stopped outside 417.
A hand touched the edge of the partially raised door.
Then a man’s voice spoke from the other side.
“Clara.”
I froze.
I knew that voice.
I had heard it across holiday tables.
At foundation meetings.
At my own wedding.
Marcus looked at me.
I whispered the name.
“Thomas.”
The door lifted.
Thomas Reed stood there.
His shirt was torn.
A bruise darkened one side of his face.
And in his hand was another sealed envelope.
He looked past Marcus directly at me.
“You found Miles.”
It wasn’t a question.
I nodded.
Thomas closed his eyes.
“Then Marianne knows the clock has started.”
“What clock?”
He stepped inside.
“The one she built into this whole thing.”
I stared at him.
“Where is my other child?”
Thomas looked at me with an expression I will never forget.
“I don’t know.”
Then he held out the envelope.
“But I know who does.”
Across the front, written in Marianne’s handwriting, were four words.
May you like
FOR CLARA, IF SHE FINDS OUT.
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