Chapter 3 - The Test That DisappearedThe laboratory technician arrived under police escort.
That was the moment I realized this had gone beyond a family argument.
Someone had entered a hospital system.
Someone had altered my medical records.
Someone had touched my baby's identity.
The technician opened a secure tablet.
“There were two prenatal DNA submissions,” he said.
Marcus frowned.
“Two?”
“Yes.”
“One under Khloe Vale.”
“And the second?”
The technician hesitated.
“Under Isabella Hart.”
Isabella looked shocked.
“That’s impossible.”
The technician turned toward her.
“Your identity was used to authorize the second submission.”
“I never authorized anything.”
“Then someone used your information.”
Marcus looked at me.
“Khloe, what did you know about this?”
“I didn't know anything.”
It was true.
I had never requested a DNA test.
The technician swiped again.
“Here is the problem.”
A result had been generated.
It showed a match.
Between the baby and Marcus.
Marcus exhaled.
“So the baby is mine.”
The technician shook his head.
“Not necessarily.”
“What?”
“The sample associated with your name matched Marcus.”
He highlighted another line.
“The original maternal sample was not attached to the final result.”
My mouth went dry.
Someone had taken DNA from another pregnancy.
Then attached it to mine.
The technician continued.
“The lab's chain-of-custody record says the prenatal sample was received at 9:13 a.m.”
I looked at the clock.
“What time did Evelyn visit?”
Marcus checked.
“8:40.”
We all looked at each other.
Then Isabella said,
“The sample was changed before I came.”
Marcus turned toward his phone.
“Call my mother.”
He did.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then a message appeared.
From Evelyn.
I am leaving the country tonight. Don't trust anyone.
Marcus stared at it.
“Mom?”
I whispered,
“Why would she leave?”
No one answered.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It showed me six months earlier.
Walking into a fertility clinic.
I stared at it.
Marcus saw my face.
“What is that?”
I couldn't breathe.
The image was real.
But I had never gone to that clinic.
A second photograph arrived.
A medical record.
The name at the top was mine.
Below it was a date.
Seven months before my pregnancy was announced.
Then a final message appeared.
YOU HAVE BEEN CARRYING THE WRONG BABY FOR SEVEN MONTHS.
Marcus's phone rang.
He answered.
Nobody spoke.
Just breathing.
Then a man's voice said,
“Tell Khloe we can still fix this.”
Marcus stood.
“Who are you?”
The line went dead.
Seconds later, every light in my hospital floor flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then the monitors shut off.
The emergency lights came on.
A nurse screamed from the hallway.
Someone had pulled the fire alarm.
Security rushed through the door.
And while everyone was distracted, Isabella disappeared.
Marcus ran after her.
I shouted,
“Marcus!”
He stopped.
He looked back.
“What?”
I pointed toward the empty doorway.
On the floor was Isabella’s red heel.
Only one.
The other was still on her foot.
And underneath it, folded into the leather, was a tiny strip of paper.
Marcus picked it up.
It contained six words.
ROOM 814. ASK FOR THE BLUE FILE.
The paper was signed with a name I had not heard in seven months.
May you like
Daniel Cross.
The man who had died before my wedding.
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