Chapter 2 - The Photograph Tiffany Couldn’t Explain
I didn't chase Tiffany.
Mike did.
That surprised me.
He shoved the wine glass onto the nearest table and crossed the lawn after her while half the wedding reception pretended not to stare.
Rachel caught my elbow.
“Jess, what is happening?”
“I don't know.”
That was the truth.
And somehow it frightened me more than any explanation could have.
Marlene stood beside us staring at the hospital bracelet.
“Where did this come from?”
“Apparently someone left it for me.”
“Who?”
“Rachel doesn't know.”
Rachel shook her head.
“The coordinator said an older woman dropped it off before the ceremony.”
“What did she look like?”
“Gray hair. Maybe sixty. She wouldn't give her name.”
Marlene closed her eyes.
“You know who it was,” I said.
“I have a suspicion.”
“Then start talking.”
She glanced toward the guests.
“Not here.”
I almost laughed.
Everybody seemed determined not to tell me anything “here.”
Five years earlier, Mike had used the same tactic during our marriage.
Later.
When things calm down.
When you're less emotional.
When we have privacy.
Delay was useful when someone wanted control.
I had lost too many years waiting for other people to decide when I deserved the truth.
“No,” I said. “Here is fine.”
Marlene lowered her voice.
“Your final fertility cycle was eight years ago.”
“I remember.”
“There was an internal incident at the clinic.”
My fingers went cold.
“What kind of incident?”
“A documentation discrepancy.”
“Those words mean nothing.”
She looked ashamed.
“A specimen identification error was reported.”
The garden disappeared.
For one second, all I could hear was the music.
A trumpet somewhere behind me.
Laughter from people who had no idea my life was shifting under their feet.
“What specimen?”
Marlene hesitated.
“Embryo storage records.”
Rachel whispered, “Oh my God.”
I stared at Marlene.
“You told me none of my embryos were viable.”
“That was what the report showed.”
“Was it true?”
“I don't know.”
“That's not good enough.”
“I know.”
Mike returned before she could continue.
Alone.
“Tiffany left.”
I looked toward the driveway.
“You let her?”
“She locked herself in the car.”
“And?”
“And drove away before I could stop her without making a scene.”
Rachel stared at him.
“You were making a scene five minutes ago insulting my best friend.”
His face tightened.
He ignored her.
“What did Marlene say?”
“Apparently my fertility records were involved in an internal incident.”
Mike looked at Marlene.
“What incident?”
She repeated it.
His anger arrived instantly.
Mike had always been good at anger when it protected his pride.
“What are you saying?”
“I'm saying we need the archived records.”
“You told us those embryos failed.”
“That's what I believed.”
“Believed?”
His voice rose.
Guests turned.
I stepped between them.
“Stop.”
Mike looked at me.
“This could be—”
“I know what it could be.”
He lowered his voice.
“Lily could be ours.”
The sentence hit harder spoken aloud.
“No.”
He blinked.
“You don't know that.”
“I know Lily's history.”
“Do you?”
That hurt because, suddenly, I wasn't sure.
I had met Lily through the clinic's family support program three years after my divorce.
She was five.
Her foster placement had disrupted.
Her mother, according to the file, was deceased.
Her father was listed as unknown.
I had no intention of adopting anyone.
Then Lily sat across from me in a fluorescent conference room, refused every cookie except the broken one, and asked whether adults could return children like shoes.
Something inside me had cracked.
“No,” I told her.
She looked suspicious.
“You sure?”
“Very.”
“Even if they get annoying?”
“Especially then.”
She had moved into my home six months later.
The adoption became final the following year.
I knew her case file.
Or I thought I did.
Mike rubbed his forehead.
“What exactly was the woman's name?”
I looked at Marlene.
“Caroline Cole.”
Mike froze.
“What?”
“You know it?”
His face changed.
“Caroline was Tiffany's sister.”
The silence became physical.
Rachel grabbed my hand.
I stared at Mike.
“You knew Tiffany had a sister named Caroline?”
“She died.”
“When?”
“About seven years ago. Tiffany said it was a car accident.”
Marlene whispered, “No.”
We turned.
“What?”
“Caroline Cole didn't die seven years ago.”
Mike stared at her.
“How would you know?”
“Because I treated her six years ago.”
Every hair on my arms rose.
“For what?”
Marlene looked at me.
“A postpartum complication.”
Nobody spoke.
I thought of the photograph.
Tiffany.
Hospital room.
Newborn.
My patient bracelet.
Mike said the obvious thing.
“If Caroline gave birth, why was Tiffany holding the baby?”
Marlene shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“But you know more than you're saying.”
“Yes.”
“Then say it.”
“I can't until I see the records.”
Mike cursed under his breath.
Rachel looked toward the reception.
“My wedding coordinator has an office inside the estate. Use it.”
“Rachel—”
“Don't argue with the bride.”
Even now, she managed to sound like herself.
We crossed the lawn.
Lily sat at a table with Mrs. Delgado, happily dismantling chocolate cake.
I stopped beside her.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
“Can I have another piece?”
“Absolutely not.”
Mrs. Delgado smiled.
“I'll keep her occupied.”
I kissed Lily's curls.
The thought that she might somehow be connected to the pregnancy I never had nearly knocked me off my feet.
But whatever the truth was, one fact did not move.
Lily was my daughter.
A laboratory report could not increase or decrease that.
Inside the coordinator's office, Marlene logged into the clinic's archived system through a secure portal.
The database was slow.
Mike paced.
Rachel had returned to her reception after making me swear to call her.
I sat across from Marlene.
“What aren't you telling me?”
She didn't look up.
“Eight years ago, three patients were undergoing treatment using the same laboratory wing.”
“Me.”
“Yes.”
“Caroline?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“Then why is she involved?”
“She wasn't a fertility patient.”
The screen loaded.
Marlene clicked through archived reports.
“Jessica, your cycle generated four viable embryos.”
My breathing stopped.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I was told none survived.”
“I know.”
“Four?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to them?”
She clicked another folder.
Then froze.
Mike moved behind her.
“What?”
Marlene stared at the screen.
“The transfer log is missing.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means somebody removed the record showing where the embryos went.”
“You can remove medical records?”
“Not completely.”
Her fingers moved faster.
“There are audit logs.”
She opened another window.
A timestamp appeared.
Then an employee number.
Marlene went pale.
“Whose number is that?”
She didn't answer.
I leaned forward.
The employee name appeared.
TIFFANY COLE — TEMPORARY ADMINISTRATIVE CONTRACTOR.
Mike stopped pacing.
“Tiffany worked at the clinic?”
Marlene nodded slowly.
“For six months.”
He sank into a chair.
“She never told me.”
“Before you met her?”
Mike looked sick.
“I met Tiffany two months before Jessica and I separated.”
I stared at him.
The room became utterly still.
“What did you say?”
He closed his eyes.
“Jessica.”
“Say it again.”
“I knew her before the divorce.”
“How well?”
He didn't answer fast enough.
Something old and ugly rose inside me.
“Mike.”
“We talked.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“No.”
“Did you want to?”
Silence.
That was answer enough.
Five years of healing did something strange.
It didn't make betrayal stop hurting.
It simply meant the hurt no longer controlled your body.
I looked at him.
“So while I was mourning the end of our fertility treatments, you were confiding in a woman who had worked at the clinic where those treatments were mishandled.”
“I didn't know she worked there.”
“Convenient.”
“I swear.”
Marlene interrupted.
“There's more.”
She opened the audit history.
Tiffany's employee ID had accessed my file twenty-three times.
Not once.
Twenty-three.
The final access occurred three days before Mike asked me for a divorce.
I stared at the dates.
“This wasn't random.”
“No,” Marlene said.
Mike stood.
“Why would Tiffany access Jessica's medical file?”
Marlene clicked another archived entry.
A scanned document opened.
It was a consent form.
My name appeared at the top.
My signature appeared at the bottom.
Except I had never signed it.
The form authorized “compassionate transfer or donation of remaining reproductive material.”
I felt nauseated.
“That isn't my signature.”
Marlene nodded.
“I know.”
Mike leaned over.
“Who witnessed it?”
We looked at the line.
Witness:
Tiffany Cole.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Nobody spoke.
“Hello?”
Breathing.
Then a woman's voice.
Weak.
Older than I expected.
“Jessica?”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Yes?”
“You don't know me.”
“Caroline?”
A long silence.
Then she began crying.
“I've been trying to find you for three years.”
I stood.
“Where are you?”
“Please don't tell Tiffany I'm calling.”
“She already knows something is happening.”
“Oh God.”
“Caroline, is Lily your daughter?”
The breathing stopped.
When she answered, her voice was barely audible.
“Yes.”
My knees nearly gave way.
Mike gripped the desk.
I forced myself to ask the next question.
“Is she biologically mine?”
Caroline sobbed once.
“I was never supposed to know whose embryo they gave me.”
The line crackled.
Then a man's voice sounded behind her.
Caroline gasped.
“Someone's here.”
“Who?”
“I have to go.”
“No. Caroline—”
“They found me.”
The call disconnected.
I stared at the phone.
Then a text arrived from the same number.
One location.
An abandoned motel outside Summerville.
May you like
And one sentence:
COME ALONE IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO LILY'S FATHER IS.
