Chapter 4 - The Embryo That Shouldn't ExistFor three years, Daniel and I had tried to have a baby.
Not arrested.
Not yet.
But Detective Ruiz wanted him downstairs for questioning.
I watched him leave without saying goodbye.
Michael remained beside my bed.
Neither of us spoke.
The burner phone changed everything.
An affair was one kind of betrayal.
An attempted murder was something else entirely.
“Do you think Daniel—”
“No,” Michael interrupted.
I looked at him.
“You answered quickly.”
“Daniel is selfish. He’s weak. He has done unforgivable things.”
Michael leaned forward.
“But murder? Claire, I have known him since we were thirteen.”
“That didn’t stop him from lying to both of us.”
“No.”
“Maybe you don’t know him anymore.”
Michael had no answer.
A nurse entered with a wheelchair.
“Mrs. Bennett, NICU says you can visit your daughter.”
Everything else vanished.
Grace.
My daughter.
Michael helped me into the chair.
Every movement pulled at my stitches.
The NICU was two floors above us.
When the elevator doors opened, the world became quieter.
Dim lights.
Soft alarms.
Tiny beds surrounded by machines.
The nurse stopped beside an incubator.
And there she was.
Grace Bennett weighed two pounds, eleven ounces.
Her entire hand was smaller than my thumb.
A breathing tube covered part of her face.
Wires crossed her impossibly delicate chest.
I started crying before I could stop myself.
“That’s my baby?”
“That’s your baby.”
I placed two fingers through the opening in the incubator.
Grace moved.
Her tiny fingers wrapped around mine.
I broke.
Every fear.
Every humiliation.
Every lie.
None of it mattered for those few seconds.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
My voice shook.
“I’m your mom.”
Michael stood several feet away, wiping his eyes.
The neonatologist explained that Grace had suffered oxygen deprivation during the abruption but had responded quickly after delivery.
The next seventy-two hours would be critical.
Seventy-two hours.
I silently promised my daughter that she would never understand what it felt like to come second.
When we returned to my room, Detective Ruiz was waiting.
Daniel was not.
Ruiz closed the door.
“I want to ask about your movements yesterday.”
I explained everything.
My visit to Mom.
Leaving at 9:52.
Driving south on Ridge Avenue.
Stopping for gas.
Then the intersection.
“Did anyone know your route?”
“Daniel.”
“How?”
“I texted him before leaving Mom’s.”
Ruiz wrote something down.
“What did you say?”
I opened the messages.
9:47 PM.
Me: Leaving Mom’s now. Should be home in 40. Love you.
His response had arrived two minutes later.
Daniel: Drive safe. Love you too.
I felt sick.
Ruiz photographed the screen.
“Anyone else?”
“My mother.”
“What about Vanessa Cole?”
“I don’t communicate with Vanessa.”
Ruiz nodded.
“Mrs. Cole says the same.”
My head snapped up.
“Mrs. Cole?”
He checked his notes.
“Vanessa Cole is married.”
Michael swore quietly.
I stared at him.
“Married?”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“Patrick Cole.”
I had never heard that name.
Ruiz continued.
“He was driving Ms. Cole when they were struck by another vehicle three miles from your collision.”
My brain struggled to catch up.
“Vanessa was also in a crash?”
“Yes.”
“The same night?”
“Within four minutes.”
Michael stood.
“That cannot be coincidence.”
Ruiz studied him.
“We agree.”
“What happened to her husband?”
“Minor injuries.”
“So two women connected to Daniel nearly die in separate car crashes within four minutes?”
Ruiz closed his notebook.
“That is why I’m here.”
I could barely process it.
“Does Daniel know she’s married?”
“Yes.”
I laughed bitterly.
Of course he did.
“Detective, what aren’t you telling me?”
Ruiz hesitated.
Then he sat.
“We recovered traffic camera footage from your intersection.”
“Did you see the driver?”
“Not clearly.”
“But?”
“The SUV waited beside a closed pharmacy for eleven minutes.”
“For me?”
“It pulled into traffic seven seconds after your vehicle passed.”
A chill moved through me.
“This was planned.”
“Yes.”
Michael walked toward the window.
“Who would want Claire dead?”
Ruiz looked at him.
“That is exactly what we are trying to determine.”
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It showed me lying inside the wrecked car.
Taken before paramedics arrived.
Underneath were six words.
YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO DIE THERE.
I dropped the phone.
Michael picked it up.
Ruiz immediately stood.
“Don’t touch anything else.”
Then another message appeared.
Ask your husband what he promised.
My blood went cold.
The words Vanessa had whispered before surgery returned to me.
You promised.
I looked at Ruiz.
“I need to know what Daniel promised Vanessa.”
“So do I.”
Daniel did not return that afternoon.
By evening, my mother arrived from Hartford.
Eleanor Bennett had never liked Daniel.
She tolerated him because I loved him.
When I told her what happened, she did not cry.
She simply sat beside me and held my hand.
“I want you to listen carefully,” she said.
“You do not protect him now.”
“Mom—”
“I mean it.”
Her voice hardened.
“You protect yourself. You protect Grace. Everyone else can survive the consequences of their own choices.”
At midnight, a hospital security officer moved outside my door.
Detective Ruiz had arranged it after the threatening text.
At 2:14 a.m., my phone rang.
Daniel.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
“Where are you?”
His breathing sounded uneven.
“Parking garage.”
“Why?”
“I can’t come upstairs.”
“Police order?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Silence.
“Daniel.”
“I know who sent the message.”
I sat upright despite the pain.
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone.”
“Then come upstairs.”
“I said I can’t.”
My heart started pounding.
“Are you protecting Vanessa?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
He whispered something.
I barely heard it.
“What?”
“Patrick.”
“Vanessa’s husband?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he want me dead?”
Another silence.
Then Daniel said the sentence that changed everything again.
“Because he thinks Grace is his.”
I stopped breathing.
“What did you say?”
“He thinks your baby is his.”
“That is insane.”
“I know.”
“How would he even—”
Daniel interrupted.
“Claire, there are things about Patrick you don’t know.”
“Apparently there are things about everyone I don’t know.”
“He worked for my company.”
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
“I never met him.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Daniel’s voice broke.
“Patrick Cole used to be Patrick Mercer.”
The name slammed into me.
Patrick Mercer.
My former fertility specialist.
The doctor who had helped us conceive Grace.
I gripped the phone.
“No.”
“Claire…”
“No.”
“We need to test the baby.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying Patrick believes the embryo used in your IVF cycle wasn’t ours.”
The room began spinning.
“He believes it was his.”
May you like
And suddenly this was no longer just about my marriage.
It was about my daughter.
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