Chapter 5 - The Adoption FileI don't remember sitting down.
I don't remember asking Mark what he meant.
I only remember one thought pounding through my head.
Adoption.
Emily was my biological daughter.
At least, that was what I'd always believed.
I had been pregnant.
I'd given birth to her.
I remembered the hospital.
The contractions.
The first time I held her.
The tiny fingers wrapped around mine.
Nothing in my memory felt false.
“What are you talking about?”
Mark wouldn't look at me.
“Rachel…”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“You said adoption.”
“I didn't mean it the way you think.”
“You don't get to say that.”
My voice shook.
“Is Emily my daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Is she your daughter?”
He hesitated.
“Yes.”
“But there's an adoption file.”
He lowered his head.
“There is paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
“Something from before she was born.”
My heart pounded.
“What did you do?”
“I didn't do anything.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
He had no answer.
I called Daniel.
He picked up on the first ring.
“I assume you've spoken to Mark.”
“Yes.”
“Then you know about the file.”
“I know nothing.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“If you knew everything, you'd already be in danger.”
I felt cold.
“What danger?”
“Not physical.”
“Then what?”
“Legal. Financial. Professional.”
“That doesn't explain why my husband lied about our daughter's health.”
Daniel was silent.
Then he said:
“Because the medical treatment isn't the only thing he's trying to hide.”
“Tell me.”
“I can't do that over the phone.”
“Why?”
“Because your husband's phone is compromised.”
I looked at Mark.
He was staring at me.
Daniel continued:
“Meet me tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“Riverside Hotel. Coffee shop. Eleven.”
“I'll be there.”
“And Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“Bring nothing connected to your husband.”
The next morning, I told Mark I needed to take Emily for another appointment.
He didn't question me.
That scared me.
Daniel was waiting at the hotel.
He was in his forties, dressed casually, with dark circles under his eyes.
He slid a folder across the table.
I didn't touch it.
“What is this?”
“Your husband's life insurance policy.”
I frowned.
“What does that have to do with Emily?”
“Everything.”
He opened the folder.
There was a beneficiary document.
My name wasn't on it.
Neither was Emily's.
The beneficiary was a company.
Whitman Family Trust.
I stared at the page.
“What is this?”
“A financial structure Mark established years ago.”
“Why?”
“Because Emily's birth was connected to money.”
I felt sick.
“I gave birth to her.”
“Yes.”
“So what does money have to do with it?”
Daniel leaned toward me.
“Your daughter was part of a medical research program.”
I couldn't breathe.
“What?”
“Before Emily was born, Mark signed an agreement with a pharmaceutical company.”
“About my pregnancy?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of agreement?”
“Genetic research.”
My mind raced.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It will.”
He opened another document.
“Emily was born with a genetic marker the company was interested in.”
I stared.
“Did Mark sell her information?”
Daniel shook his head.
“He sold access.”
“To what?”
“Medical records.”
I felt nauseated.
“How long?”
“Fifteen years.”
My hands began to shake.
“No.”
Daniel's expression softened.
“I know.”
“No.”
“There is more.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“The company didn't just want her medical records.”
He slid another page across the table.
At the bottom was Mark's signature.
And beneath it:
In the event of serious medical intervention, all research materials must be transferred within forty-eight hours.
I couldn't breathe.
“My daughter gets sick…”
Daniel nodded.
“…and they get access.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“That is the question your husband has been trying to keep you from asking.”
My phone buzzed.
A message from Emily.
Mom, Dad is asking where you are.
I looked at Daniel.
Then another message appeared.
He says he needs to talk to me alone.
My blood ran cold.
I stood so quickly the chair scraped the floor.
I called Emily.
No answer.
I called again.
Still nothing.
Daniel grabbed his coat.
“What's happening?”
“My daughter is with Mark.”
He looked at me.
Then at the clock.
His expression changed.
“Rachel.”
“What?”
“You said she was fifteen, right?”
“Yes.”
May you like
He whispered:
“Then you have less than twenty-four hours.”
