Chapter 3 - A House Learning How to Be Full
Mrs. Delaney got a guest room ready, one that looked over the eastern garden and held more furniture than Margaret's entire apartment. Ivy stood in the doorway and didn't step in.
"Something wrong?" I asked.
"Which part am I allowed to use?"
"All of it."
She eyed the upholstered chair, the writing desk, the bed buried in white linens like it was a trap.
"Nobody needs this much room just to sleep."
"No," I admitted. "They really don't."
She set the hospital pajamas on the edge of the bed.
"Where do you sleep?"
"Down the hall."
"And her?" She nodded toward Mrs. Delaney.
"Second floor."
"What if I need something?"
"You call us."
"How?"
I showed her the intercom button beside the bed. She pressed it.
A soft chime sounded down the hallway, and Mrs. Delaney answered instantly. "Yes, Ivy?"
Ivy stared at the little speaker like it had performed a magic trick.
"Nothing. Just checking."
"That's exactly what buttons are for," Mrs. Delaney said.
For the first time since she'd arrived, Ivy laughed.
It was small. Gone almost the second it started. But it changed the whole house.
I stood outside her door long after she'd fallen asleep. On the nightstand, she'd lined up three dinner rolls, wrapped carefully in a cloth napkin. Insurance against a morning she still fully expected to go hungry.
I went back to my study and read Vivian's letter again.
Marcus,
You were told your preserved samples were secure. They weren't.
The baby wrapped in this blanket was born using genetic material taken without your current consent. The clinic records I've enclosed are real. Do not let Meridian Fertility Institute run this investigation — there are people there who've spent years hiding what they did.
You'll have questions about his mother. I can't answer them safely in a letter.
Start with patient file B-22.
Trust Margaret Doyle.
And when the time comes, ask why Vivian Cole's death certificate was never filed in Massachusetts.
That final line had gone through me like ice the first time. Alone in my study now, I ran every public record search I had access to.
Vivian Cole had lived in Massachusetts. A driver's license. Property tax filings. Professional registrations. Hospital employment contracts. But Julian was right when he called an hour later.
No death certificate.
No probate record.
No burial permit.
Nothing on record showing she had ever died at all.
The mutual friend who told me she had was a man named Harlan Reese — one of the founding physicians at Meridian Fertility Institute.
At 6:15 the next morning, Julian showed up at the estate. He hadn't slept.
"Meridian has a problem," he said, dropping his laptop on the kitchen table.
Mrs. Delaney set a mug of coffee in front of him. Ivy sat nearby, spooning up oatmeal, watching us with quiet, careful attention.
"What kind of problem?" I asked.
"Their archive shows your samples got moved out of long-term storage eight years ago."
"Moved where?"
"That's the problem. The destination field's been deleted."
"Who authorized it?"
"The digital signature on file belongs to Vivian Cole."
My eyes went straight to the letter. "She had no authority after we split."
"According to Meridian, she did. There's a consent form with your signature on it, giving her decision-making power over the samples."
"I never signed that."
Julian turned the laptop toward me.
The scan looked authentic. My name sat at the bottom of the page.
But it wasn't my handwriting.
Close enough to fool a clerk. Wrong enough to crawl straight under my skin.
"Patient file B-22?" I asked.
Julian's jaw tightened. "Gone."
"Gone from where?"
"Everywhere. The database shows the file existed. The contents were wiped three months ago."
"Who wiped it?"
"A records supervisor named Diane Foster."
"Where is she now?"
"No longer with the clinic."
"Find her."
"Working on it."
A spoon clinked softly against ceramic.
Ivy had stopped eating.
"You know that name?" I asked her.
She stared down at her bowl.
"Ivy."
"Grandma knows a Diane."
Julian and I traded a look.
"What does she look like?" he asked.
"She's got red glasses."
"Did she visit your apartment?"
"Sometimes."
"When's the last time?"
Ivy thought about it. "Before Grandma went to the hospital."
"What did they talk about?"
"I don't know. Grandma sent me to the laundry room."
"Did they argue?"
May you like
Ivy shook her head. "They cried."
The woman who deleted the clinic file had been sitting in Margaret Doyle's living room.
