PART 2: The Report Genevieve Hid From Me

“Everything connected to what?”

Elena drew in a slow breath.

“To the first warning.”

I looked down again.

The report was dated September 14, seven years earlier.

Genevieve had been pregnant then, though she had not told anyone outside our immediate family.

The twins had been born six years ago, after months of complications and a final, terrifying delivery.

I remembered the joy more clearly than the fear.

Their tiny fingers.

Genevieve’s exhausted smile.

The way she had whispered, “They’re here,” as though she had personally brought them safely through a storm.

What I didn’t remember was any warning.

“What does this mean?”

I asked.

Elena opened her mouth, but no words came.

Prescott moved closer to the desk.

“Lawson—”

“No.”

I held up a hand.

“She came here because of my children.

I want her to tell me.”

Elena nodded.

“The report is a genetic screening summary,” she said.

“It was prepared after Genevieve’s second trimester testing.”

“I know what prenatal screening is.”

“Then you know the report should have been included in their medical records.”

“It wasn’t.”

“No.”

I turned the first page.

The language was technical, full of terms I understood only partly.

One section had been highlighted in pale yellow.

A variant associated with altered metabolism of certain chemotherapeutic agents.

Beneath it was a recommendation for confirmatory testing after birth.

My gaze stopped there.

“What does this mean?”

“It means Jonah and Blythe may not process some medications normally,” Elena said.

“The drugs may leave their bodies too slowly.

Or not work as expected.

The doctors needed to know before choosing treatment.”

I looked at the report again.

“Their doctors know they have leukemia.”

“Yes.”

“They’ve tested everything.”

“Have they tested this?”

I reached for the phone.

“Dr.

Yates has been treating them for months.

He knows their history.”

“Does he know about this report?”

Elena’s hesitation answered me.

Prescott’s expression tightened.

“You’re saying the hospital never received it?”

“I’m saying it was removed before the final record was sent.”

A cold sensation settled beneath my ribs.

“Removed by whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“Genevieve did?”

“No.”

Elena’s voice softened.

“She found out after the report disappeared.”

I stared at her.

“Then why didn’t she tell me?”

Elena glanced toward the windows, where evening had begun to gather over the city.

The glass reflected all three of us: Prescott standing rigidly near the door, Elena looking small in her worn coat, and me with a document in my hands that seemed to have rearranged the last six years.

“She tried,” Elena said.

“Don’t say that unless you can prove it.”

“She wrote you a letter.”

My fingers tightened around the pages.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Then what do you have?”

“A copy of one page.”

She reached into her coat and pulled out a clear plastic sleeve.

Inside was a single sheet of cream-colored paper, folded twice.

I recognized Genevieve’s handwriting before Elena even placed it on the desk.

Genevieve’s letters had always leaned slightly to the right, elegant and hurried at the same time.

She wrote grocery lists as if they were invitations to dinner.

I unfolded the page.

Lawson,

If you are reading this, I either failed to tell you what I learned, or someone made certain I could not.

The first line blurred.

I read it again.

If you are reading this, I either failed to tell you what I learned, or someone made certain I could not.

The rest of the page contained only a few sentences.

The twins’ report was changed after Dr.

Merrow reviewed it.

I don’t believe he acted alone.

I am trying to confirm what happened before I speak to you.

Please trust me when I say I have not kept this from you to hurt you.

I am trying to protect our children.

There was no signature.

Only a date.

Two weeks before she died.

I lowered the paper.

“Who was Dr.

Merrow?”

Elena sat in the chair opposite my desk without waiting for permission.

“Samuel Merrow was the director of the clinic’s genetics department.

He was highly respected.

He consulted for several pharmaceutical companies and served on the board of a foundation that funded pediatric cancer research.”

“That sounds like a reason to trust him.”

“It was.”

“Was?”

“He died three years ago.”

“How?”

“A heart attack.”

I looked toward Prescott.

“Find out everything about him.”

“I can have someone start tonight.”

“No.

You start tonight.”

Prescott’s eyes flicked toward Elena.

“And her?”

“She stays here.”

Elena straightened.

“I’m not asking for protection.”

“You came to my home saying the people connected to Genevieve’s death might know you’re here.”

“I said they might know.”

“You also said none of us would survive tonight.”

“I said we may not have much time.”

“Then you can spend that time somewhere secure.”

Her expression hardened for the first time.

“I didn’t come here to be locked in another rich man’s house.”

The words landed more sharply than she intended.

Perhaps she saw that, because her face softened.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“That was unfair.”

“Was it?”

She looked down at her hands.

They were reddened from the cold, the knuckles chapped.

There was a faint crescent-shaped scar near her thumb.

“No,” she said.

“Not entirely.”

Prescott said, “Mr.

Mercer, the children’s floor is secure.

But bringing an unknown person into the house is—”

“She isn’t unknown,” I said.

“You know her name.”

“I know she had something my wife gave her.

I know she has a report that may explain why my children are not responding to treatment.

That’s enough for tonight.”

“It isn’t enough for me.”

“Then investigate faster.”

Prescott held my gaze for a long moment.

We had worked together for eleven years.

He was one of the few people who could disagree with me without disguising it as politeness.

Finally, he nodded.

“I’ll have the guest room prepared.”

“I don’t need a guest room,” Elena said.

“I need a telephone.”

“You’ll have both.”

She looked back at me.

“Before I go upstairs, you need to understand something.”

I waited.

“Genevieve didn’t believe the altered report was the whole story.”

“What else was there?”

“She thought the twins’ condition might not have appeared naturally.”

I felt the room become very still.

“Are you saying someone caused my children’s illness?”

“No.”

Elena answered quickly.

“I’m saying Genevieve was afraid of an exposure.

Something connected to the fertility clinic.

Something that might have affected the embryos before they were implanted.”

The words were so extraordinary that my mind rejected them before I could examine them.

“You’re telling me a clinic poisoned embryos?”

“I’m telling you that Genevieve suspected their samples had been mishandled.

She found a chemical name in an internal document.

She believed it could damage developing blood cells years later.”

“Why didn’t she take that to the police?”

“Because she didn’t have proof.”

“And why didn’t she take it to another doctor?”

“She did.”

“What happened?”

Elena looked at the letter.

“Her second opinion was canceled before the appointment.”

“Canceled?”

“By the clinic.”

“Clinics don’t cancel medical appointments without a reason.”

“They do when the patient’s file is flagged.”

I stood abruptly, sending the chair behind me a few inches across the floor.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because the twins are sick now.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

I walked to the windows.

Below, the estate grounds were lit by discreet lamps, the hedges trimmed, the gates closed.

Beyond them, Chicago glittered under a low ceiling of clouds.

The house had always seemed invulnerable at night.

Now it felt like a room built around a secret.

“Where were you when Genevieve died?”

I asked.

“Working at Northbridge.”

“In what position?”

“Patient care coordinator.”

“Were you close to her?”

“Not at first.”

“What changed?”

“Dr.

Merrow assigned me to her case.”

I turned.

“Elena, Genevieve had a private physician.”

“For her pregnancy, yes.

But the genetic testing was handled through Northbridge.

I helped coordinate the appointments and transfer the samples.”

“Did you know her personally?”

“Eventually.”

“How eventually?”

Elena clasped her hands together.

“She was frightened.

Not of the pregnancy.

She was happy about the babies.

She was frightened because her results kept changing.”

“Changing how?”

“One report said the twins showed no concerning markers.

Another showed a possible inherited disorder.

Then the final report said everything was normal.”

“And you believed the second report?”

“I believed the first one.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw the raw data.”

The room seemed to narrow.

“What did it show?”

“A metabolic variant.

Not proof of disease.

Not even proof the children would ever become ill.

But it meant they needed follow-up testing after birth.”

“And that testing never happened.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because the result was removed from the file before Genevieve’s obstetrician received it.”

“Who removed it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

I wanted to distrust her.

It would have been easier.

A stranger appeared with my dead wife’s necklace, a report, and accusations that reached into the most painful part of my life.

Every instinct I possessed told me to question her motives.

But the document was real.

The handwriting was Genevieve’s.

And beneath the fear rising through me was something else—a memory I had spent two years trying not to touch.

Three weeks before the accident, Genevieve had asked me whether I still trusted the people who managed our charitable foundation.

I had been reviewing acquisition documents at the time and answered without looking up.

“Of course I do.”

She’d stood in the doorway of my study, one hand resting against the frame.

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

I had glanced at her then.

She wore the blue necklace.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” she’d said after a pause.

“I was only wondering.”

I had returned to my work.

At the time, I assumed she was worried about some minor disagreement among the foundation directors.

I had told her I would handle it later.

Later never came.

“Did she mention me?”

I asked.

Elena nodded.

“Constantly.”

The answer brought no comfort.

“What did she say?”

“That you loved the children more than anything.

That you would move heaven if you knew where to push.”

I gave a humorless laugh.

“I’ve tried.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know what Genevieve told me.”

“What else?”

Elena looked at the report.

“She said you could be difficult when you were afraid.”

The words should have angered me.

Instead, they struck with the familiarity of truth.

“She wasn’t wrong.”

“No.”

For a brief moment, the tension between us eased.

Then Prescott’s phone vibrated.

He stepped into the hall to answer.

His voice dropped too low for me to hear.

A minute later, he returned with a folder in his hand.

“I’ve got preliminary information on Dr.

Merrow.”

“Already?”

“I had a researcher pull archived records.”

He placed the folder on my desk and opened it.

Inside were newspaper clippings, corporate filings, and a photocopy of a death certificate.

“Merrow left Northbridge eighteen months after the twins were born,” Prescott said.

“He joined a company called Helix Biologics as chief medical adviser.”

I scanned the first page.

“Helix makes oncology drugs.”

“Yes.”

“Which drugs?”

Prescott tapped a line on the document.

“One of them is the medication Jonah and Blythe received during their first round of treatment.”

My eyes moved to the name.

A drug I had heard Dr.

Yates mention repeatedly.

Standard therapy, he had called it.

Carefully monitored.

Necessary.

Elena leaned forward.

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“I know,” I said.

Prescott continued.

“There’s more.

Helix sponsored a research program at Northbridge.

The program began six months before Genevieve’s pregnancy.”

“What kind of research?”

“Early detection of pediatric blood disorders using embryonic genetic markers.”

I looked at Elena.

“Did Genevieve know about this?”

“She discovered it after the twins were born.”

“How?”

“She received a billing statement from Northbridge.

It listed a research consent appointment she never attended.”

“Could it have been an administrative error?”

“That’s what they told her.”

“And she believed otherwise.”

“She had signed nothing.

Yet a copy of her name appeared on a consent form.”

I turned to the page.

There it was.

Genevieve Mercer.

The signature was not hers.

It was close enough to fool someone who didn’t know her, but I did.

Genevieve’s capital G had a long, sweeping loop.

This one was cramped and angular.

At the bottom of the form, two identification numbers had been typed.

The twins’ embryo storage numbers.

I read them twice.

“Why would anyone use their embryo records in a research program?”

“To study the variant,” Elena said.

“Without consent?”

“That was Genevieve’s fear.”

Prescott turned another page.

“After Merrow left Northbridge, Helix acquired the research division.

Three years later, Helix settled a civil case involving unauthorized use of patient samples.”

I looked up.

“What kind of settlement?”

“Confidential.”

“Who filed the case?”

Prescott hesitated.

“Genevieve Mercer.”

The office seemed to tilt.

I reached for the folder, but Elena placed her hand over it.

“Lawson.”

I stared at her.

“My wife sued them?”

“She started the process,” Elena said.

“But the case was never filed publicly.”

“Why not?”

“She withdrew it.”

“Why?”

“She told me she had found something worse.”

I pulled my hand back.

“What?”

Elena’s eyes filled again, but this time she did not look away.

“She found a second consent form.”

Prescott flipped through the documents.

“There’s no copy here.”

“No,” Elena said.

“Because Genevieve kept it.”

“Where?”

“She told me she had placed it somewhere you would never think to look.”

I almost laughed.

“Genevieve knew I looked everywhere.”

“She said you searched rooms,” Elena replied.

“Not memories.”

A faint sound came from the hallway.

We all turned.

Through the glass panel beside the door, I saw Dr.

Yates approaching with a nurse.

His face was drawn, his tie loosened.

He had been with the twins since their latest test results came back.

I opened the door.

“Doctor.”

He stepped inside, glancing at Elena.

“I was told you wanted me.”

“I do.”

His eyes settled on the report in my hand.

“What is that?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

He read the heading and went still.

“Where did you get this?”

“You’ve seen it before?”

Dr.

Yates looked at Elena.

She rose from her chair.

“Tell him,” she said.

The doctor removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“I saw a copy six years ago.”

My pulse began to pound.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it was not in the hospital file.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It was marked unverified.

The laboratory that issued it had withdrawn the result.”

“Why?”

“Northbridge claimed the sample had been contaminated.”

“And you accepted that?”

“I questioned it.”

“What did you do?”

“I ordered follow-up testing after the twins were born.”

“Did you?”

“I requested it.”

“Requested?”

Dr.

Yates looked toward the floor.

“The samples were never sent.”

“Who stopped them?”

He said nothing.

I stepped closer.

“Who stopped them?”

His face had gone pale.

“Your wife.”

The words struck harder than any accusation.

“Genevieve stopped the testing?”

“She came to my office.

She said she had received a warning from someone at Northbridge.

She believed further testing would put the children’s records at risk.”

“Put them at risk how?”

“She never explained.”

“That makes no sense.”

“No,” Dr.

Yates said quietly.

“It didn’t.”

Elena approached the desk and lifted the medical report.

“She did explain,” she said.

“Just not to you.”

I turned to her.

“Where is the second consent form?”

Elena looked toward the hallway leading to the family wing.

“Genevieve hid it in the nursery.”

The room went silent.

I had not entered that room since the week after Genevieve’s funeral.

It still held the twins’ first bassinets, their faded stuffed animals, and the wooden rocking chair Genevieve used every night when they were infants.

Elena’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“She told me that if anything happened to her, I should look beneath the loose floorboard under the blue rug.”

I knew the rug.

It had been Genevieve’s favorite.

And beneath it, I suddenly remembered, was a small brass key I had found years ago—one I assumed belonged to an old toy chest.

I had never tried it in a lock.

Dr.

Yates looked at me with something close to regret.

“There’s one more thing,” he said.

“What?”

“The report you’re holding was not the only one withdrawn from Northbridge.”

He reached into his coat and removed a sealed envelope.

“This arrived at my office this morning.”

On the front, in Genevieve’s unmistakable handwriting, were six words:

Give this to Lawson when treatment fails.

I took the envelope.

The seal had already been broken.

Inside was a single photograph of two newborn babies sleeping side by side.

On the back, Genevieve had written:

They were never supposed to survive the transfer.