Chapter 3 - The Doctor Who VanishedDavid didn't answer.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then stopped.
A second later, a voicemail appeared.
He played it.
A woman's voice filled the car.
“David, you need to stop looking for answers through your family.”
A pause.
“They have lied to you for eight years.”
My stomach twisted.
Rachel continued.
“Especially your father.”
David's face hardened.
Then the message ended.
We immediately searched for Dr. Rachel Morgan.
There was almost nothing.
A medical license.
A hospital employment record.
Then, eight years ago, she disappeared.
No new address.
No current practice.
No social media.
Nothing.
It was as though someone had erased her.
We returned to the hospital.
The administrator recognized the name.
“She was one of the obstetricians here.”
“Was she Oliver's doctor?”
“No.”
“Was she involved in my delivery?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
My blood ran cold.
“Why?”
“She wasn't the attending physician.”
“Then why was she there?”
The administrator looked uncomfortable.
“She was called for a consultation.”
“What kind?”
She hesitated.
“Genetic.”
David stepped forward.
“Genetic?”
“Yes.”
I stared at her.
“That doesn't make sense.”
She closed the file.
“I'm not authorized to discuss more.”
“Then tell us who authorized her.”
She checked the record.
My mother's-in-law name appeared.
Elizabeth Bennett.
I felt dizzy.
The woman who had denied being at the hospital had authorized a genetic consultation.
For me.
On the day Oliver was born.
We found Rachel's old apartment address in archived records.
The building was abandoned.
But the superintendent remembered her.
“She left suddenly.”
“When?”
“Three days after a little boy was born.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged.
“She was frightened.”
“Of what?”
“I don't know.”
Then he remembered something.
“She left a storage box.”
“Where?”
He pointed upstairs.
“Unit 8.”
Inside the dusty room was a metal container.
Locked.
David found a key taped under the lid.
I opened it.
Inside were medical photographs.
Lab reports.
A flash drive.
And one handwritten note.
For Vanessa, if they ever come looking.
I stared at the note.
My hands shook as I unfolded it.
Your son was not the problem. The blood test was.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
David took the note.
“What blood test?”
We plugged the flash drive into my laptop.
There was one folder.
COLE FAMILY
Inside were scans of genetic tests.
My name.
David's name.
Oliver's name.
I couldn't breathe.
There was a parentage analysis.
The result was partially blacked out.
But one line remained visible:
Probability of paternity: 0.00%.
David stared at the screen.
“No.”
I turned toward him.
“What does that mean?”
“No.”
“You're his father.”
“I know.”
“Then why does this say zero?”
He stood abruptly.
“This is fake.”
“Maybe.”
But there was another document.
A laboratory chain-of-custody report.
The sample date was March 15, eight years ago.
The hospital.
The room.
The exact time.
And the signature belonged to Rachel.
Someone had tested Oliver.
Before we ever left the hospital.
I felt sick.
David walked outside.
I followed him.
“Where are you going?”
“To find Karen.”
“You think she knows?”
“I think my entire family knew something about that test.”
We drove to Karen's condominium.
Her car was gone.
The front door was unlocked.
Inside, drawers had been emptied.
Clothes were scattered everywhere.
A half-packed suitcase sat on the bed.
“She ran,” I whispered.
David opened a desk drawer.
Empty.
Then he noticed a false bottom.
He pulled it out.
There were bank statements.
Debt notices.
Estate documents.
And a photograph.
Oliver.
Age three.
Taken at a park.
The photo had a date written on the back.
But Karen hadn't taken it.
Neither had we.
David flipped it over.
Under the date were three words.
He survived because.
“Because what?” I whispered.
A noise came from downstairs.
We froze.
Footsteps.
Someone entered the apartment.
David grabbed my hand.
We hid behind the kitchen wall.
The footsteps moved closer.
Then a man's voice spoke.
“Give me the envelope.”
A woman's voice answered.
Karen.
“I don't have it.”
“You're lying.”
“I swear.”
A chair scraped.
“You called the school. You made the accusation. You were supposed to make this family panic.”
“I did.”
“Then where is the file?”
“I don't have it.”
“You'd better find it.”
The man grabbed her.
She screamed.
David moved.
Before we could step out, the front door slammed.
The man ran.
Karen collapsed against the wall.
She looked at us.
Her face went pale.
“David…”
“Who was that?”
She said nothing.
“Who?”
Karen began crying.
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain.”
“He isn't yours.”
My heart stopped.
Karen shook her head violently.
“Not because you didn't give birth to him.”
She looked directly at me.
“Because the baby you gave birth to wasn't the baby you brought home.”
I couldn't move.
“What?”
Karen whispered:
“They switched them.”
David lunged forward.
“Who?”
Karen pointed toward the hallway.
“The doctor.”
“Rachel?”
Karen nodded.
“Rachel knows where the other baby went.”
Then another voice came from behind us.
A voice I recognized.
My mother-in-law.
Elizabeth.
“Karen.”
We turned.
May you like
She stood in the doorway.
And she was holding a gun.
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