Chapter 2 - The Test I Never Took
I read Daniel’s signature until the letters stopped looking like letters.
The document shook in my hand.
Three days before our daughter was born.
Three days before he sat beside me on our couch, rubbing my swollen feet and asking whether I thought the baby would have his eyes.
Three days before he packed the hospital bag.
Three days before he kissed my belly and whispered, “Daddy can’t wait to meet you.”
He had already signed a document saying he might not be her father.
“You said there was a DNA report.”
My voice sounded distant.
Luka stood beside the consultation room door.
“Yes.”
“I never had a paternity test.”
“I know.”
“Then there cannot be a DNA report.”
“There shouldn’t be.”
“Who ordered it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
I laughed once.
There was nothing amused in the sound.
“You seem to know quite a lot for someone who keeps claiming he’s trying to find things out.”
His expression did not change.
“That’s fair.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“What would be fair is you telling me everything before another man comes through that door trying to take my baby.”
Nancy sat beside me.
She had wrapped a hospital blanket around my shoulders.
“You need to rest.”
“I need answers.”
“You just gave birth.”
“And somebody just tried to send me to a psychiatric hospital.”
Nancy had no response to that.
Luka looked at the young nurse.
“Marco, can you secure the south exit?”
The nurse nodded.
“For maybe ten minutes.”
“Do it.”
When he left, I narrowed my eyes.
“You know hospital employees by name.”
“I know some.”
“How?”
“My company handles security consultation for three buildings owned by St. Catherine.”
“You’re a security contractor?”
“Among other things.”
“What other things?”
“Things your father once paid me to learn.”
There it was again.
My father.
Every answer circled back to a dead man I had apparently never truly known.
“What did my father pay you to do?”
Luka looked at Nancy.
She understood.
“I’ll find Sofia some clothes.”
“I’m not leaving my baby.”
“You don’t have to.”
Nancy stood.
“I’ll bring them here.”
When the door closed, Luka pulled a chair across from me.
He sat.
The room was too small for a man his size.
His tattooed hands rested loosely between his knees.
For the first time since he appeared, he did not look like he was preparing to move.
“Your father found me when I was seventeen.”
I said nothing.
“My father had been dead eight months.”
“Carlo Moretti?”
“Yes.”
“How did he die?”
“Officially?”
Luka looked at me.
“Car accident.”
The parallel was obvious.
I felt cold.
“And unofficially?”
“I never believed the brakes failed by accident.”
“My father died in a car accident too.”
“Yes.”
“You think the same person caused both?”
“I think Adrian Cross benefited from both.”
Daniel’s father.
The man who toasted us at our wedding.
The man who gave us a house as a wedding gift.
The man who stood outside the delivery room that afternoon, pretending to be an excited grandfather.
My stomach turned.
“What did my father do for you?”
“He gave me work.”
“At seventeen?”
“He gave me structure.”
Luka looked down at his hands.
“I wasn’t easy.”
“I can imagine.”
That almost earned a smile.
Almost.
“He helped me finish school.”
“Why?”
“Because my father had once done the same for him.”
“What were they?”
“Partners.”
“In Meridian?”
“Yes.”
“And Adrian Cross was the third partner.”
“Yes.”
The pieces were beginning to form a shape.
I didn’t like the shape.
“What happened to Meridian?”
“It was dissolved.”
“When?”
“Six months after your father died.”
“Who got the assets?”
“Adrian.”
Of course.
“What does that have to do with Daniel?”
Luka’s eyes sharpened.
“Everything.”
He pulled out his phone.
The screen was badly scratched.
He opened a photograph.
Daniel was standing outside a restaurant.
He wore the navy coat I had bought him for Christmas.
Across from him stood an older man with thin white hair.
I recognized him.
Dr. Elias Voss.
I had seen his picture in the hospital database less than ten minutes earlier.
“Where was this taken?”
“Four months ago.”
“Why were you following my husband?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Then why do you have this?”
“I was following Voss.”
“Why?”
“Because he accessed M-17.”
I looked at the photo.
Daniel was smiling.
Voss had one hand on his shoulder.
They did not look like strangers.
“When?”
“The night this picture was taken.”
“And what exactly did he access?”
“A Meridian archive.”
“I thought Meridian was dissolved.”
“Companies disappear.”
Luka’s gaze hardened.
“Data doesn’t.”
A memory surfaced.
Daniel sitting beside me at dinner four months earlier.
He had been unusually quiet.
I remembered asking whether something was wrong at work.
He told me a client had canceled.
Then he drank three glasses of bourbon.
That was the same month he suddenly insisted I switch obstetricians.
I looked up.
“My doctor.”
“What?”
“Daniel changed my doctor.”
“When?”
“Four months ago.”
“From who?”
“Dr. Patel.”
“To?”
My mouth went dry.
“Dr. Whitcomb.”
Luka’s face changed.
“What?”
“Say that name again.”
“Dr. Anne Whitcomb.”
He stood.
“What?”
I asked.
“Whitcomb worked for Meridian.”
I felt the baby move against me.
My arms tightened.
“That’s impossible.”
“She was one of the program physicians.”
“What program?”
“M-series.”
That phrase entered the room like poison.
“What does M mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I’m not hiding it.”
“Then guess.”
Luka’s eyes stayed on mine.
“Male donor.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“It’s one possibility.”
“Donor?”
“You underwent fertility treatment.”
That was not a question.
I looked away.
Daniel and I had tried for almost two years.
Month after month.
Negative tests.
Needles.
Hormones.
Appointments.
Tears I hid in the bathroom because I couldn’t stand the disappointment in Daniel’s face.
Finally, Dr. Patel recommended IVF.
Daniel took charge of everything.
He researched clinics.
He handled insurance.
He signed forms.
He even chose St. Catherine Reproductive Center because his father sat on the hospital foundation board.
At the time, I thought it was helpful.
Now every memory felt contaminated.
“We used Daniel’s sample.”
“Were you present when it was collected?”
“No.”
“Did you personally see the lab chain-of-custody paperwork?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you sign forms?”
“Hundreds.”
“Did you read every page?”
I hated the question because I knew the answer.
“No.”
Daniel had placed sticky notes beside signature lines.
Routine forms.
That was what he called them.
I had trusted him.
The realization made me feel physically sick.
“My daughter is Daniel’s.”
Luka said nothing.
“She looks like him.”
“She’s six hours old.”
“She has his chin.”
“Sofia.”
“He held my hand during the transfer.”
“I know.”
“He cried when the pregnancy test came back positive.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know anything.”
My voice rose.
“My husband may be a cheating coward, but he wanted this child.”
Luka leaned forward.
“Then why did he order a prenatal DNA test without telling you?”
I stopped.
He continued.
“And why did he sign a relinquishment form before she was born?”
I had no answer.
A knock came.
Nancy entered carrying gray sweatpants, a loose sweatshirt, underwear, socks, sanitary supplies, and a pair of hospital slippers.
“I stole everything except the slippers.”
She tried to smile.
Nobody did.
“I’ll help you change.”
Luka stood.
“I’ll wait outside.”
“Don’t go far.”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
He looked at me.
Something softened.
“I won’t.”
After he left, Nancy helped me change.
Every movement hurt.
My body felt unfamiliar.
My hands shook when I lowered my daughter into the clear bassinet.
She immediately made a small complaining sound.
“I know, baby.”
I leaned over her.
“Mommy’s right here.”
Mommy.
The word nearly broke me.
Nancy touched my shoulder.
“You’re doing fine.”
“I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Nobody does the first day.”
“My husband left.”
“Then he’s the fool.”
A tear escaped.
I wiped it angrily.
Nancy pretended not to notice.
“Do you trust that man?”
She asked.
“Luka?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
It was the truth.
“Do you trust your husband?”
I stared at the floor.
“No.”
That answer hurt more.
When I finished dressing, Luka returned.
He was carrying a laptop.
“Marco bought us twelve minutes.”
“For what?”
“Before the transfer team realizes we aren’t in maternity.”
“Then what?”
“We leave.”
“You keep saying we.”
He looked at my daughter.
“For tonight, there needs to be a we.”
I hated that part of me felt safer hearing it.
Luka opened the laptop.
“I found the prenatal test reference.”
He turned the screen.
A requisition form appeared.
PATIENT: SOFIA BENNETT CROSS.
GESTATIONAL AGE: 11 WEEKS, 2 DAYS.
TEST TYPE: NONINVASIVE PRENATAL PATERNITY ANALYSIS.
My full name.
My date of birth.
My address.
My blood type.
Everything was correct.
Except I had never consented.
“Who signed it?”
I asked.
Luka enlarged the bottom.
My signature was there.
Perfect.
My handwriting.
My loops.
My slant.
Even the odd way I crossed the second T in Bennett.
I stared at it.
“That looks like mine.”
“It is a digital copy.”
“I didn’t sign it.”
“I believe you.”
“Daniel could copy my signature.”
“Probably.”
“Is that enough to prove fraud?”
“Not by itself.”
“Where are the results?”
“Deleted.”
My heart sank.
“Of course.”
“But somebody left a metadata trail.”
He opened another screen.
RESULT STATUS: COMPLETED.
ACCESS HISTORY.
There were four names.
Dr. Elias Voss.
Dr. Anne Whitcomb.
Adrian Cross.
And Daniel Cross.
My husband had opened the results twice.
Once eleven weeks into my pregnancy.
And again forty-eight hours before our daughter was born.
“He knew.”
My voice disappeared.
Luka nodded.
“He knew something.”
“What?”
“That’s what we need the original result to answer.”
A line beneath the access log caught my attention.
SPECIMEN COMPARISON SOURCE: ARCHIVE M-17.
“What is archive M-17?”
I whispered.
Luka looked at it.
“I think we’re finally about to find out.”
His phone rang.
He answered immediately.
“Yes.”
He listened.
His face changed.
“When?”
Another pause.
“Don’t touch anything.”
He disconnected.
“What?”
I asked.
“Marco checked the fertility storage room.”
“And?”
“Someone cleared your entire IVF file.”
My chest tightened.
“Today?”
“Twenty-three minutes ago.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Whitcomb’s credentials.”
The lights flickered.
Nancy looked toward the ceiling.
Then everything went dark.
My daughter began crying.
Emergency lights came on red.
Luka was already moving.
He lifted the bassinet with one hand.
“Take her.”
I did.
“What happened?”
“This wing has independent backup power.”
“So?”
“So the lights shouldn’t have gone out.”
A heavy metallic sound echoed from the hallway.
The doors had locked.
Nancy tried the handle.
Nothing.
Then Luka’s phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen.
A message.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
He turned it toward me.
There were only nine words.
THE BABY IS NOT DANIEL’S.
May you like
Underneath was another message.
ASK LUKA WHY HIS DNA IS FILE M-17.
