Chapter 9 - Phase ThreeMiriam disappeared for eleven hours.
No calls.
No messages.
No security footage.
Then she appeared at my apartment at 3:17 in the morning.
She looked completely different.
Hair wet.
Coat torn.
Blood on one sleeve.
I opened the door and almost screamed.
“What happened?”
“Lock the door.”
I did.
She stood in the hallway breathing heavily.
“I found the original research file.”
“Where?”
“Genesis archive.”
“What happened to your office?”
“They searched it.”
“Who?”
“People working for Eleanor.”
I stared at her.
“How do you know?”
“Because they weren't looking for money.”
She held up a flash drive.
“They were looking for this.”
I took it.
“What is it?”
“The original Project Seedline database.”
I looked at the tiny device in my palm.
“How did you get it?”
“Your father.”
That surprised me.
“My father?”
“He finally decided he was afraid of Eleanor.”
“What does that mean?”
Miriam sat down.
“He wasn't protecting your family all these years.”
“What was he doing?”
“Protecting himself.”
She opened the database on my laptop.
Patient records appeared.
Hundreds.
Some dating back thirty years.
Genetic profiles.
Pregnancy outcomes.
Medical complications.
Financial payments.
Then I saw the pattern.
Women with specific genetic markers had been recruited.
Some through fertility clinics.
Some through surrogacy agencies.
Some through direct family referrals.
Some had been pressured.
Some had been deceived.
I scrolled.
And there was Elena Brooks.
Marked:
Phase Three failure.
I looked at Miriam.
“What is Phase Three?”
She swallowed.
“The final reproductive protocol.”
“What does it do?”
“It uses a genetically selected embryo and a highly compatible carrier to produce a viable pregnancy.”
“That sounds like IVF.”
“It isn't.”
“What then?”
“It was designed to maximize access to fetal tissue without triggering standard research regulations.”
I stared at her.
“They wanted tissue.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough to build a private cell bank.”
I felt sick.
“For what?”
“Regenerative medicine.”
“That sounds like a good thing.”
“Not when you own the patents.”
I understood.
The company wasn't simply researching treatments.
It wanted control over the biological source.
The right to patent therapies derived from it.
The baby was not the product.
The cells were.
I read the agreement.
There were clauses around exclusive ownership of biological materials.
Research rights.
Commercial rights.
Future derivatives.
Everything.
And at the center:
Carrier C.B.
Me.
My hands shook.
“Why did they need me?”
Miriam looked at me.
“Because your genetics are unusually compatible with the donor line.”
“Meaning?”
“Lower rejection risk.”
“And that makes the pregnancy more valuable.”
“Yes.”
“Which explains the payment.”
“Yes.”
“Then why does Grant receive it?”
“Because Grant is acting as the intermediary.”
I stared.
“For EverBloom?”
“For Eleanor.”
“What does Vanessa know?”
“Only what she's been told.”
I looked at the database.
Then noticed another field.
Compensation already distributed.
I clicked.
Grant Jameson.
$72,000.
Dad.
$50,000.
A fertility coordinator.
$18,000.
And Vanessa.
$12,000.
I froze.
Vanessa had received money.
Miriam saw my face.
“She knew something.”
“She knew enough.”
I closed the laptop.
“How do we prove it?”
“We don't need to prove everything.”
“What?”
“We need to prove consent was manipulated.”
“That's not enough to destroy the network.”
“No.”
She handed me another file.
“This is.”
It was a recorded call.
Vanessa and Eleanor.
I pressed play.
Vanessa's voice came first.
“I don't care how you do it. Claire will never agree voluntarily.”
Eleanor replied calmly.
“Then don't ask for voluntary consent.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Family.”
Silence.
Then Vanessa asked:
“And if she still refuses?”
Eleanor answered:
“Your father knows what to do.”
I stopped the recording.
“What does that mean?”
Miriam's face tightened.
“I don't know.”
I listened again.
Then another phrase caught my attention.
Eleanor had mentioned “the original file.”
The original file.
Not original research.
Original patient file.
I looked at Miriam.
“Where is it?”
She whispered:
“St. Catherine's.”
The hospital where I was born.
I sat upright.
My birth records.
The missing file.
The secret beginning.
Everything led back there.
We drove before dawn.
The records department opened at seven.
We arrived at 6:53.
But the records clerk was already waiting.
He looked nervous.
Then he slid a sealed envelope across the desk.
“This was left here for you.”
I stared at it.
My name was written across the front.
Underneath:
OPEN ONLY WHEN YOU KNOW WHO YOUR MOTHER IS.
My hands trembled.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
Rebecca.
Holding a newborn baby.
Standing beside her was a woman I recognized instantly.
Vanessa.
Impossible.
Vanessa hadn't been born when I was.
But the woman in the photograph had the same face.
Same eyes.
Same smile.
Only older.
May you like
And written on the back were six words:
Your sister has never told you her real name.
Related Stories
