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“She did,” I whispered. “My mother told her not to.”
Silence.
Then, carefully: “Michael… your mother contacted me earlier today.”
My eyes snapped open.
“What?”
“She asked for a copy of the results,” Dr. Crane said. “She claimed she was helping coordinate care.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“No,” the doctor agreed quietly. “It doesn’t.”
I felt the room shift.
“Genetics?” I repeated.
She nodded faintly.
“There was a condition they were screening for. Rare, but serious.”
I waited.
“But that’s not why your mother took it.”
A cold feeling spread through me.
“Then why?”
Sarah looked at me, her eyes filled with something deeper than fear.
Something closer to dread.
It took two days to find the envelope.
Not at our house.
Not in Sarah’s purse.
But in my mother’s car.
Hidden in the glove compartment.
I stared at it for a long time before opening it.
Two sheets of paper.
The first was exactly what Sarah said—medical results, flagged risks, urgent recommendations.
The second…
My hands shook as I read.
DNA analysis.
Paternity confirmation.
99.98% probability.
I exhaled, confused.
Of course.
That made sense.
Then I saw the names.
Tested individual: Michael Carter.
Alleged father: Jonathan Reed.
My vision blurred.
Jonathan Reed.
I knew that name.
