Chapter 2 - The Files That Disappeared From My Company Proved Someone Had Planned My Son’s Erasure Before He Was BornThe next morning, I called an emergency security meeting.
Not with my executives.
With the private investigators who worked directly for me.
I had never used them for family matters.
That changed immediately.
I handed them the hospital documents.
“Find out who changed my son's records.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Find the person who sent that call.”
“Yes.”
“And find everyone who knew Maya was pregnant.”
They exchanged looks.
“Everyone?”
“Yes.”
“No exceptions.”
I sat in the hospital conference room.
Maya was sleeping.
Our son remained in the NICU.
I hadn't left.
For the first time in forty-one years, money felt completely useless.
I couldn't buy a healthier set of lungs for my son.
Couldn't negotiate with oxygen.
Couldn't threaten a heart monitor.
Couldn't close an acquisition and make the problem disappear.
I could only wait.
At 8:17 a.m., the investigator called.
“Mr. Lawson.”
“Yes.”
“We found something.”
“What?”
“The hospital record was accessed before your son was admitted.”
“By whom?”
“An administrative terminal.”
“Name?”
“Darla Pierce.”
My stomach tightened.
Darla.
Again.
I walked back toward Maya's room.
Darla was still there.
She had not left.
“Caleb.”
“Come with me.”
She stood.
We entered an empty consultation room.
I closed the door.
“You accessed the baby's record.”
“I didn't.”
“The hospital says your terminal was used.”
“I wasn't there.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Where?”
“Your office.”
I stared at her.
“Someone used your credentials.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of whom?”
She looked down.
“I don't know.”
I slammed the file onto the table.
“You have been deleting my wife's messages for months.”
“I know.”
“You knew she was pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“You knew I had a child.”
“I suspected.”
“You erased the hospital record.”
“I didn't.”
I stared at her.
“Do you understand how impossible it is for me to believe you right now?”
“Yes.”
“Then help me.”
She looked at me.
“I don't know who they are.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
She hesitated.
“Your father's people.”
“My father is dead.”
“They're still operating.”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
I leaned forward.
“Then start remembering.”
Darla closed her eyes.
“Your father had a private office.”
“He had several.”
“Not public.”
“Where?”
“Underground.”
I stared.
“When?”
“Before he died.”
“Who went there?”
“Three people.”
“Names?”
“Your father's chief legal adviser.”
“Samuel Pike.”
“Yes.”
“His physician.”
“Dr. Adrian Cole.”
“Yes.”
“And someone else.”
“Who?”
Darla looked at me.
“I only knew him as Mr. Gray.”
“Appearance?”
“Tall.”
“Age?”
“Sixties.”
“Hair?”
“White.”
“Anything else?”
“He never showed his face.”
I sat.
“Why did my father need him?”
“He handled things your father didn't want traced.”
“What things?”
“People.”
I felt cold.
“People?”
“Disappearances.”
I stared at her.
“You're telling me my father ran an operation outside the company.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
“Why didn't I know?”
“Because he didn't want you to.”
That was the pattern.
Everyone had always protected me from the truth.
My father.
Darla.
Maya.
Everyone except myself.
I returned to the NICU.
Maya was awake.
She looked at me.
“What happened?”
I sat beside her.
“Your pregnancy was hidden.”
“I know.”
“No.”
I took her hand.
“I mean someone planned to erase our son.”
She closed her eyes.
“I was afraid of that.”
“Why?”
“Because I found something.”
“What?”
She reached into her hospital drawer.
Another envelope.
“I found this after the divorce.”
Inside were documents.
A list of people.
Medical appointments.
Security schedules.
Payments.
And a letter.
Mrs. Jensen,
You have been selected for a confidential maternal health program.
Maya shook her head.
“I never signed up for it.”
I stared.
“This was sent before our divorce.”
“Yes.”
“Who sent it?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you attend?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew it wasn't normal.”
She handed me another page.
A patient number.
M-17.
I recognized it.
The same code appeared in my father's confidential files.
I had seen it once.
I thought it was a corporate medical project.
It wasn't.
It referred to pregnant women.
Women whose babies had unusual genetic markers.
I looked at Maya.
“Did anyone take blood samples from you?”
She nodded.
“A doctor your office recommended.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Adrian Cole.”
My stomach dropped.
Darla had just named him.
My father's physician.
“He examined you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He said it was a routine prenatal test.”
“How many times?”
“Three.”
I stood.
“I need his records.”
Maya grabbed my hand.
“Caleb.”
“What?”
“You need to understand something.”
“What?”
“The first time I went to him, I wasn't pregnant yet.”
I froze.
“When?”
“Six weeks before conception.”
“What did he do?”
“He ran genetic tests.”
“Why?”
“He said your father had requested a health profile on me.”
I stared.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought it was because I was your wife.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“What?”
“He knew.”
“Knew what?”
I looked toward our son's incubator.
“That we'd have a child.”
The room went silent.
Maya began to cry.
I realized the truth was worse than I had imagined.
Someone had anticipated our son's birth.
They had tracked Maya.
They had tracked her pregnancy.
They had altered records.
And they had known I wouldn't know.
My phone rang.
The investigator.
“We found Dr. Cole.”
“Where?”
“Dead.”
My blood ran cold.
“When?”
“Last night.”
“How?”
“Poisoning.”
I closed my eyes.
Someone was eliminating witnesses.
Then the investigator continued:
“We also found his computer.”
“Anything on it?”
“One file.”
“What's it called?”
“M-17.”
I stared at Maya.
The code.
Again.
“What does it contain?”
A pause.
“Your name.”
May you like
Then:
“And your son's.”
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