Chapter 3 - THE VOICE IN WARD 4BThe rain had tapered off into a thick, suffocating fog by the time my SUV pulled into the parking lot of St. Vincent’s Charity Hospital.
The facility was old—a four-story brick structure built in the 1950s, with flickering fluorescent lights in the corridors and the faint, pervasive smell of industrial disinfectant.
Investigator Vance displayed her official state credentials to the night administrator, and within three minutes, we were walking down the dimly lit hallway of Ward 4B—the long-term palliative care unit.
Room 412 was located at the very end of the hall.
Inside, the room was quiet save for the rhythmic, low beep of a heart monitor. Suspended over the bed was a bank of IV drips. Lying in the bed was a woman whose face was gaunt, pale, and worn by years of physical suffering. Her hair, once a vibrant shade of auburn, was now silvered and thin.
Dr. Clara Mercer.
As the door clicked shut behind us, her eyelids fluttered open. Her dark green eyes, clouded with fatigue, turned slowly toward us.
“Nathan...?” she whispered, her voice raspy, barely audible above the hum of the heart monitor.
I stepped closer to the bed, pulled a chair beside her, and sat down. “Clara. It’s me.”
A faint, trembling breath escaped her lips. “The baby... did you find him? Please... tell me he’s alive...”
“He’s safe,” I said gently, reaching out to take her frail, cold hand in mine. “He’s at my home in Greenwich. He’s warm, he’s fed, and he’s being protected by private security and child welfare.”
Tears welled up in Clara’s eyes, spilling over her hollow cheeks. “Thank God... oh, God, thank you...”
Vance stepped up beside the bed, pulling out a voice recorder. “Dr. Mercer, I am Sarah Vance from the Department of Children and Families. We need you to tell us everything that happened. Who carried that child?”
Clara took a long, ragged breath, her fingers tightening slightly around mine.
“Twelve years ago,” Clara began, her voice gaining a momentary strength born of desperation, “when you came to Manhattan Reproductive Sciences, Nathan... your cousin Julian paid the clinic director half a million dollars to create three viable embryos from your genetic samples before your treatment began.”
I felt a cold sensation settle deep in my stomach. “Julian created embryos twelve years ago?”
“He wanted an insurance policy,” Clara explained, her chest heaving slightly. “He knew that if you ever discovered his corporate embezzlement, he could use a surrogate to produce a child, claim the family trust, and lock you out. But two years ago, I found out what he was doing. I stole the remaining viable embryo from the vault and hid the digital registry files.”
“Who was the mother, Clara?” I asked softly.
Clara looked into my eyes, her expression filled with profound heartbreak.
“Her name was Maya,” Clara whispered. “Maya Lin. She was my young research assistant at the clinic. When she learned that Julian was planning to destroy the embryo because your cancer went into remission, she offered to carry the child herself in secret. She lived in an isolated cottage in northern upstate New York for nine months.”
A heavy lump formed in my throat. “Where is Maya now?”
Clara closed her eyes, a fresh wave of tears leaking from her eyelids. “She... she died three days ago, Nathan. Complications during a home birth in the middle of a winter storm. Before she passed, she made me promise to take the child directly to you. She knew you were a good man. She knew you would protect your son.”
Vance leaned in closer. “Dr. Mercer, if Maya died three days ago, how did the baby end up in a cardboard box behind Mr. Carter’s wall?”
Clara opened her eyes, a look of pure terror filling her gaze.
“Julian’s men tracked me to Stamford yesterday morning,” Clara said, her voice shaking violently. “They intercepted my car two miles from Nathan’s estate. They took my phone, my wallet, and tried to force me into their van to take the baby. I managed to escape into the woods behind the north perimeter wall while they were distracted.”
She looked directly at me, her eyes burning with intensity.
“I didn’t have a choice, Nathan!” Clara sobbed. “I couldn’t reach the main gate! Julian’s guards were everywhere! I wrapped the baby in Maya’s blanket, placed the letter inside, and lowered the box over the stone wall into the bushes behind your property. I prayed to God that someone inside the house would hear him crying!”
I squeezed Clara’s hand, my heart breaking for the immense sacrifice this dying woman and Maya Lin had made to save my son’s life.
“You saved him, Clara,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “You and a seven-year-old girl named Lily. You brought my son home.”
Suddenly, the door to Room 412 blew open.
Two men wearing heavy grey tactical uniforms stepped into the room. In their hands were specialized pneumatic sedative syringes used by private security forces.
Behind them stepped a man wearing an immaculate charcoal suit, holding a leather briefcase.
It was not Julian.
It was Harrison Vance—the high-powered senior legal counsel for Carter Capital, and the uncle of Investigator Sarah Vance.
Sarah gasped, taking a step backward. “Uncle Harrison...?”
May you like
Harrison Vance stepped into the room, his face devoid of warmth, his eyes cold as ice.
“Sarah,” Harrison said calmly, looking at his niece with disappointment. “You were always too idealistic for your own good. You should have stayed out of family business.”
