Chapter 6 - March Seventeenth
I remembered March seventeenth in fragments.
Rain tapping against the bedroom windows.
A cup of tea going cold beside me.
Marcus sitting on the edge of the bed.
Chloe folding laundry because she said keeping busy would help me.
I remembered apologizing.
That was the part that haunted me most.
I had apologized to Marcus.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a family.”
He kissed my forehead.
“None of this is your fault.”
He had known even then that the sentence was technically true.
He just never told me why.
Three days after meeting Sofia, I returned to the estate for the first time since the divorce.
Not voluntarily.
A search warrant had been issued.
Investigators requested that I identify several boxes of old reproductive records Marcus claimed belonged to me.
The estate looked exactly the same.
White stone.
Black shutters.
Rows of hydrangeas.
I stood in the circular driveway and felt nothing.
That surprised me.
For fifteen years, this had been home.
Now it looked like a photograph of a place where another woman once lived.
Renee Alvarez met me at the door.
“Marcus is not here.”
“Where is he?”
“His attorney advised him to stay away.”
“Chloe?”
“She moved out yesterday.”
I looked toward the upstairs windows.
“Where did she go?”
“Rental property.”
“And Noah?”
“With her.”
My first supervised visit with him was scheduled for the following morning.
I had been thinking about it every minute.
Renee led me through the foyer.
Investigators moved around the study.
Boxes covered the dining table.
One detective photographed the safe.
Renee stopped beside the staircase.
“Elena.”
“Yes?”
“We found something upstairs.”
My heart tightened.
“What?”
“In the nursery.”
I froze.
Marcus had converted one of our guest rooms into Noah’s nursery after Chloe moved in.
I had seen photographs online.
Navy walls.
White crib.
Gold stars.
I had forced myself not to look.
“What did you find?”
“You should see it.”
The nursery door stood open.
Inside, the room was painfully beautiful.
A stuffed elephant sat in the rocking chair.
Baby photographs covered the walls.
Noah smiling.
Noah sleeping.
Noah sitting in Marcus’s lap.
Noah beside Chloe.
Not one image acknowledged me.
Of course not.
Renee walked toward the closet.
She pushed aside several tiny jackets.
Behind them was a steel lockbox built into the wall.
Marcus had apparently forgotten investigators would find it.
Inside were documents.
My IVF records.
My signature samples.
Photocopies of my driver’s license.
Old passports.
A notary stamp.
And a black notebook.
Renee wore gloves when she opened it.
Every page was written in Marcus’s handwriting.
Payments.
Dates.
Initials.
K — 75.
H — 40.
Asteria — 118.
Transport — 18.4.
My stomach turned.
“Payments.”
Renee nodded.
“Looks like it.”
Then she turned several pages.
A date had been underlined twice.
March 17.
Beside it:
3 viable.
1 C.
1 S.
1 reserve.
I stared.
“What does that mean?”
“We were hoping you knew.”
“I don’t.”
Dr. Thorne entered behind us.
Renee handed him the notebook.
He read the notation.
His expression darkened.
“C could mean carrier.”
“Chloe?”
“Possibly.”
“S?”
“Sofia.”
I looked at the last words.
“Reserve?”
No one answered.
Renee turned the page.
Another note.
R HELD OFF BOOKS.
ADRIAN OBJECTS.
KELLER SAYS SAFE 18 MOS.
My pulse accelerated.
“R?”
“Reserve.”
Dr. Thorne looked disturbed.
“If that interpretation is correct.”
“Held off books?”
Renee nodded.
“Unregistered storage.”
I looked at her.
“Can a clinic do that?”
“Legally?”
“No.”
“Physically?”
Dr. Thorne answered.
“Yes.”
The third embryo might never have left Crestview.
Or it might have been kept somewhere without appearing in the system.
Then we found the photograph.
It was tucked inside the notebook.
Marcus.
Dr. Keller.
Adrian Cole.
Three men standing outside a private aviation terminal.
Date stamped on the back.
March eighteenth.
One day after my embryos supposedly failed.
Adrian stood slightly apart from the others.
He was not smiling.
“Where is Adrian?”
I asked.
Renee’s expression changed.
“That is a problem.”
“He contacted Sofia.”
“Yes.”
“So find him.”
“We tried.”
“And?”
“He disappeared yesterday.”
My skin went cold.
“Like Keller.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Marcus hurt them?”
“We do not know.”
“Then what do you know?”
Renee looked at me directly.
“We know Adrian sent an encrypted archive to a journalist forty-eight hours ago.”
“What journalist?”
“Rachel Monroe.”
I recognized the name.
Investigative reporter.
She had exposed a nursing home fraud scandal the previous year.
“What was in it?”
“We haven’t seen everything.”
“But?”
“Financial records involving the shelter.”
The shelter.
For ten years, Harbor House had been my life.
I started it after my sister’s college roommate was killed by her husband.
One rented office became a hotline.
Then transitional apartments.
Then legal assistance.
Then a twenty-eight-bed emergency facility.
Marcus never cared about it until wealthy donors began attending our fundraisers.
Then he cared very much.
“What did Adrian find?”
Renee handed me another document.
Bank transfers.
Vendor contracts.
A company named Northstar Community Solutions.
Millions had passed through it.
I recognized the name.
“They did security upgrades at Harbor House.”
Renee nodded.
“On paper.”
“What does that mean?”
“The company has no employees.”
I stared at her.
“No office.”
“No active contractor license.”
“No equipment.”
“Who owns it?”
She turned the page.
Chloe Hale.
I sat down.
“No.”
Renee did not speak.
“Chloe?”
“Her name appears on the incorporation documents.”
“She stole from the shelter?”
“Possibly.”
“With Marcus?”
“Possibly.”
Millions.
Money meant for women escaping violence.
Children sleeping in emergency rooms because we lacked beds.
Mothers waiting months for counseling.
Families receiving grocery vouchers while Marcus and Chloe hosted parties at my estate.
I suddenly wanted to tear the nursery apart.
Instead I stood very still.
“How much?”
“Initial estimate?”
Renee hesitated.
“Three-point-eight million dollars.”
My breath left me.
Dr. Thorne looked disgusted.
I thought of every fundraising letter I wrote.
Every donor meeting.
Every volunteer who sold raffle tickets.
Marcus had not only stolen my embryos.
He had taken the one thing I built that had nothing to do with him.
Renee’s phone rang.
She answered.
“Yes.”
Her expression sharpened.
“Where?”
She listened.
“Do not touch anything until forensics arrives.”
She ended the call.
“What happened?”
I asked.
“They found Keller.”
My heart jumped.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Airport hotel.”
“Was he hiding?”
“No.”
Renee’s expression became grim.
“He was unconscious.”
Dr. Thorne swore.
“What happened?”
“Possible overdose.”
“Intentional?”
“Unknown.”
“Can we speak to him?”
“If he wakes.”
I looked at Marcus’s notebook.
Then another thought struck me.
“You said Adrian disappeared yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“And Keller disappeared the day Marcus called him.”
“Yes.”
“Marcus told Heather to destroy evidence.”
“Yes.”
“Now one witness is missing and another almost died.”
Renee’s expression gave nothing away.
“We are aware of the pattern.”
Before I could answer, an investigator entered the nursery.
“Agent Alvarez.”
“Yes?”
“We found another safe.”
“Where?”
“Basement office.”
“Contents?”
The man glanced at me.
“You should probably come down.”
The basement office had belonged to Marcus.
I rarely entered it during our marriage.
He called it his private space.
Now investigators covered every surface.
One safe stood open behind the desk.
Inside were cash bundles.
Passports.
Several phones.
A flash drive.
And a folder marked E.M.
My initials.
Renee opened it.
The first document was my divorce petition.
The second was a psychiatric evaluation.
My name appeared at the top.
I had never seen it before.
The report described me as paranoid.
Delusional.
Obsessive.
Potentially dangerous.
At the bottom was a physician’s signature.
Dr. Philip Keller.
“He isn’t a psychiatrist.”
I whispered.
“No.”
Renee turned the page.
Another document.
A draft petition requesting emergency guardianship over me.
It was dated four months before Marcus filed for divorce.
I stared at it.
“He was going to have me declared incompetent.”
Dana had arrived and was reading over my shoulder.
“He planned to.”
The next page contained instructions.
If Elena challenges divorce:
File evaluation.
Use Chloe as witness.
Document self-harm concerns.
Freeze joint accounts.
Secure reproductive materials.
My vision narrowed.
He had prepared everything.
Every rumor.
Every witness.
Every accusation.
The destruction of my credibility had not happened during the divorce.
It had been planned months before.
Then Dana turned one final page.
There was a typed memorandum.
SUBJECT: FUTURE CHILDREN.
The first line made my blood run cold.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD ELENA BE INFORMED OF ANY SUCCESSFUL BIRTH RESULTING FROM PRESERVED EMBRYOS.
Below it was a handwritten note.
IF R SURVIVES, USE LATER.
I stared.
R.
Reserve.
The third embryo.
“If it survives.”
Dana whispered.
“Use later.”
I looked toward Renee.
“What does that mean?”
Before she could answer, my phone rang.
Adrian Cole.
Everyone froze.
Renee lifted a finger.
“Answer.”
I pressed speaker.
“Adrian?”
Static.
Then a man breathing heavily.
“Elena.”
His voice was weak.
“Where are you?”
“No time.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Yes.”
Renee immediately began signaling to another agent.
“Tell us where you are.”
Adrian coughed.
“Marcus knows about the third embryo.”
“We know.”
“No.”
His voice sharpened.
“You know there was one.”
“You don’t know what he did with it.”
I gripped the phone.
“Then tell me.”
Silence.
“Elena, the third embryo wasn’t transferred.”
“Where is it?”
“Marcus didn’t want another carrier yet.”
“So he stored it.”
“At first.”
My heartbeat pounded.
“What does that mean?”
Adrian breathed painfully.
“Eighteen months later, Keller told him the storage site was shutting down.”
“What happened?”
“Marcus authorized another procedure.”
My mouth went dry.
“With whom?”
Adrian’s next words were almost a whisper.
“Not a surrogate.”
I looked at Dana.
“Then who?”
Adrian started coughing again.
“Elena.”
“Who did Marcus give my embryo to?”
“He didn’t give it to someone.”
“He sold it.”
The room vanished around me.
“What?”
“A private couple paid him four hundred thousand dollars.”
My knees weakened.
“For my embryo?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know their real names.”
“You have to know something.”
“I know where the birth happened.”
Renee leaned toward the phone.
“Where?”
Adrian whispered an address.
Then a loud noise exploded through the call.
Metal.
Glass.
A shout.
“Adrian?”
No answer.
“Adrian!”
The call disconnected.
Renee’s agents were already moving.
She grabbed her coat.
I followed.
“Elena, stay here.”
“No.”
“This could be dangerous.”
“That is my child.”
“We don’t know whether the embryo resulted in a child.”
I held up Marcus’s notebook.
He did.
He wrote it down.
Renee stopped.
“What?”
I pointed toward a final notation hidden near the bottom of the page.
R — SUCCESS.
SEX: M.
DOB: 11/02.
I felt my throat close.
Male.
Born November second.
Three years ago.
I looked at Renee.
May you like
“Noah isn’t my only son.”
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