Chapter 4: The Baby Wasn't Mine
The heart monitor screamed.
One second Claire was holding my hand.
The next, her eyes rolled backward.
“Claire!”
Doctors rushed into the room.
“Sir, step back!”
“I’m her husband!”
“Step back!”
I was pushed toward the door as nurses surrounded her.
The monitor continued its violent beeping.
A doctor shouted instructions.
Someone injected medication into Claire’s IV.
Another nurse adjusted the oxygen.
I stood outside the room, staring through the glass.
My wife was fighting for her life.
And four words kept repeating inside my head.
The baby isn't yours.
I couldn't make sense of them.
It wasn't possible.
Claire and I had been married for four years.
The baby was supposed to be ours.
We had chosen names together.
We had painted the nursery.
We had spent months arguing over whether the crib should be white or natural wood.
I had kissed her stomach every night during our video calls.
I had talked to our unborn child.
And now Claire had told me the baby wasn't mine.
Why?
Who was the father?
My brother?
Nathan?
My father's letter had mentioned Claire's pregnancy eight years ago.
My mother had claimed Nathan was involved.
Claire had just said the father was someone connected to her.
My thoughts collided until they became noise.
Then a nurse opened the door.
“Mr. Parker?”
I stood immediately.
“Is she okay?”
“She stabilized.”
I nearly collapsed with relief.
“But she's still unconscious.”
“Can I see her?”
“In a few minutes.”
I nodded.
Then I noticed someone standing at the end of the hallway.
Nathan.
He was watching me.
I walked toward him.
He didn't move.
“Did you hear her?”
He looked confused.
“Hear what?”
“My wife.”
“What happened?”
“She said the baby isn't mine.”
Nathan's expression changed.
Only for a fraction of a second.
But I saw it.
Fear.
Then he looked away.
“Daniel...”
“Is the baby yours?”
He stared at me.
“No.”
“Look me in the eyes and say it.”
He did.
“It isn't mine.”
I believed him.
At least for the moment.
“Then who is the father?”
Nathan swallowed.
“I don't know.”
“You know something.”
“I know enough to tell you that you need to stop digging.”
“Why?”
“Because people are dying.”
My blood ran cold.
“Who?”
Nathan looked toward Claire's room.
“Your father wasn't the first.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
He stepped closer.
“There were three people who knew the truth.”
“Dad.”
“Your father.”
“Claire.”
Nathan nodded.
“And the third?”
He looked directly at me.
“You.”
I frowned.
“I didn't know anything.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“You just don't remember.”
I felt a chill run down my spine.
“What are you talking about?”
Nathan reached into his jacket.
He pulled out a small photograph.
He handed it to me.
I looked at it.
It showed me.
But I was much younger.
Maybe twelve.
I was standing beside my father.
Beside us was a woman I didn't recognize.
And in her arms was a baby.
I turned the photograph over.
A date.
Eight years before I met Claire.
And beneath it, one sentence:
Daniel met his future child before he met Claire.
I stared at the words.
“That isn't possible.”
Nathan shook his head.
“It is.”
“Who is the woman?”
“I don't know.”
“Where was this taken?”
“Your father's private clinic.”
I looked up.
“My father had a clinic?”
“He owned one.”
“Why didn't I know?”
“Because he shut it down.”
“When?”
“Three months after that photograph.”
“Why?”
Nathan's face hardened.
“Because someone died.”
I stepped closer.
“Who?”
Nathan didn't answer.
“Who died?”
He looked toward the hospital entrance.
Someone was standing there.
A woman.
Long dark hair.
Black coat.
She was watching us.
Nathan saw her.
His face turned white.
“She's here.”
“Who?”
Nathan backed away.
“Don't let her see you.”
“What are you talking about?”
He turned and walked quickly down the hallway.
“Nathan!”
He didn't stop.
I looked back toward the woman.
She was gone.
I ran toward the entrance.
Nothing.
Only visitors.
Security guards.
A cleaning cart.
No woman.
My phone vibrated.
A message.
You are asking the wrong question.
Another message arrived.
The question is not who fathered Claire's baby.
Then:
The question is why your father chose you to raise it.
I stared at the screen.
Raise it?
What did that mean?
I returned to Claire's room.
She was still unconscious.
I sat beside her bed.
Her hand was cold now.
I held it.
“Claire, wake up.”
Nothing.
“I don't care who the father is.”
I swallowed.
“I just need you alive.”
Her fingers moved slightly.
I leaned closer.
“Claire?”
Her eyes remained closed.
Then she whispered something.
“Basement.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Basement…”
Her lips barely moved.
“Your father's clinic.”
Then she went silent.
I stood.
My father had owned a clinic.
There had been a basement.
And apparently, whatever happened there eight years ago was connected to Claire.
I left the hospital.
This time, I didn't tell anyone where I was going.
The clinic was forty minutes outside the city.
It had been abandoned for years.
The building was hidden behind overgrown trees and rusted fencing.
I parked outside.
The front door was locked.
I broke the glass.
Inside, the air smelled like mold.
Old medical equipment remained scattered throughout the rooms.
Examination tables.
Cabinets.
Empty medicine bottles.
I found the basement stairs.
At the bottom was a steel door.
Locked.
I pulled out the brass key.
It didn't fit.
I tried the handle.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a keypad.
Four digits.
I thought about the photograph.
The date.
I entered it.
07-19-2018.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
The basement was almost completely dark.
I turned on my flashlight.
Rows of old filing cabinets lined the walls.
At the center was a metal examination table.
And beside it...
A child's crib.
I walked toward it.
Inside the crib was a faded blue blanket.
I touched it.
Something was stitched into the corner.
Two letters.
D.P.
My initials.
I stepped backward.
Then I saw the wall.
Photographs covered it.
Dozens of them.
Claire.
My father.
Nathan.
My mother.
And me.
Some photographs were taken before Claire and I had ever met.
One showed Claire holding a newborn baby.
Another showed my father signing a document.
Another showed my mother standing beside a hospital bed.
Then I saw something that made my knees weak.
A photograph of Claire and me.
Together.
The date was eight years ago.
The problem?
I had no memory of ever meeting her.
I turned the photograph over.
Written on the back:
Subject successfully transferred.
Transferred?
What subject?
I looked at the next photograph.
It showed a baby.
A hospital bracelet was attached to the infant's tiny wrist.
I zoomed in with my phone.
The name on the bracelet was almost impossible to read.
But I could make out two words.
Daniel Parker.
My hands began trembling.
Then I noticed a file sitting beneath the photograph.
I opened it.
The first page contained a medical report.
The second page was a birth certificate.
The third page was a custody agreement.
And the fourth page contained a handwritten note from my father.
I read it slowly.
Daniel,
If you ever discover this, understand one thing.
The child is yours.
But not by blood.
I stopped.
My heart hammered.
Not by blood?
Then who was the biological father?
I turned the page.
There was one final line.
I took the child from Claire because the real father would kill to get him back.
A sound came from behind me.
Footsteps.
I turned.
The basement door was closing.
I ran toward it.
Too late.
The lock clicked.
Someone had locked me inside.
Then the lights came on.
A speaker crackled above my head.
And my father's voice filled the basement.
“If you're hearing this, Daniel, they already know you found the clinic.”
I froze.
His recorded voice continued.
“And there is one final truth I never had the courage to tell you.”
A pause.
Then:
“Claire's first child is alive.”
My heart stopped.
The recording continued.
“And he has been living under your name for eight years.”
I stared at the dark hallway.
Then I heard a child's voice through the speaker.
A boy.
Calm.
Terrified.
And unmistakably familiar.
“Dad?”
I stopped breathing.
The speaker crackled again.
May you like
“Please come get me.”
Then the lights went out.
