Chapter 6 - The Other PregnancyThe answer arrived from the last person I expected.
David knocked for nearly five minutes.
“Lauren, I know you’re inside.”
Rachel emerged from the guest room.
“What does he want?”
I held up one finger.
My phone was recording.
Nathaniel had told me I was legally allowed to record conversations in Ohio as long as one party consented.
I was that party.
“Why are you here?” I called through the door.
“Open it.”
“No.”
“We need to talk about Sterling.”
Rachel’s eyes widened.
So did mine.
David already knew.
I moved closer to the door.
“What about Sterling?”
“Don’t play games.”
“You’re the one pounding on my house at eleven at night.”
“Our house.”
“Then say what you came to say.”
Silence.
“I heard you requested records.”
“How?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Lauren, those records are incomplete.”
Interesting.
“How do you know?”
Another silence.
Then he said, “Because the clinic shut down.”
“You told me you barely remembered that place.”
“I remember enough.”
“What happened to me there?”
His response came too quickly.
“Nothing.”
Rachel mouthed, liar.
“What procedure did I have?”
“You had fertility testing.”
“Was I sedated?”
Silence.
My heart started pounding.
“David?”
“You took medication.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“Why are you obsessing over three-year-old records?”
“Because my doctor found scarring in my uterus.”
The hallway went silent.
I watched the shadow of his shoes beneath the door.
Then he said, quietly, “What kind of scarring?”
That was the first moment I knew.
Not suspected.
Knew.
My husband had been involved in something.
“I thought you said nothing happened.”
“Nothing important.”
“Then why are you asking?”
He struck the door once with his palm.
“Open the damn door.”
Rachel picked up her phone, ready to call police.
I stayed calm.
“No.”
His voice lowered.
“You’re making things worse.”
“For who?”
“For yourself.”
I almost laughed.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
“It sounded like one.”
“You’re pregnant. You’re emotional. You’re listening to people who don’t know what happened.”
“Then tell me.”
Nothing.
“Tell me what happened at Sterling.”
Another long silence.
Finally, David said, “The doctors recommended an additional diagnostic procedure.”
“Did I consent?”
“You were informed.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“You signed intake paperwork.”
“For fertility evaluation.”
“It covered treatment.”
My stomach twisted.
“No, David.”
“You wanted a baby.”
“Not without consent.”
“You were desperate.”
The words cut deeper than he realized.
I whispered, “So you knew.”
“I knew they ran additional tests.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You remember enough to show up here after learning I requested the file.”
He swore.
Then I heard him walking away.
I opened the curtain slightly.
He crossed the driveway toward his car.
Before getting in, he turned and looked directly at the window.
For the first time since our marriage collapsed, he looked afraid.
The next morning, Nathaniel listened to the recording twice.
“This is significant.”
“He admitted knowing.”
“He admitted something. Don’t stretch it further than the recording supports.”
I paced his office.
“What do we do?”
“We subpoena records if necessary.”
“What if David destroys them?”
“Then that becomes a different problem for David.”
Nathaniel tapped his pen against the desk.
“But first we need to understand whether this has anything to do with your current pregnancy.”
The question haunted me.
Could something done three years ago affect twins conceived naturally now?
Dr. Shah said not necessarily.
The uterine scarring might be incidental.
But I no longer believed in coincidence where David was concerned.
That afternoon, Vanessa called.
I almost declined.
Then I answered.
“Lauren?”
“What?”
“I need to tell you something.”
I was tired of that sentence.
“Go ahead.”
“David came to my apartment last night.”
“Congratulations.”
“No. Listen.”
Her voice shook.
“He was angry.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked whether I had spoken to you.”
“Have you?”
“Only at the house.”
“What else?”
“He asked whether I knew anything about Meridian.”
I sat down.
“What did you say?”
“I told him I didn’t.”
“Do you?”
“A little.”
My pulse quickened.
“Then start talking.”
Vanessa took a breath.
“I work in marketing. I didn’t handle contracts. But Meridian Biogenics was one of Whitmore Analytics’ earliest major clients.”
“I know.”
“David told me that contract saved the company.”
“That’s true.”
“What he didn’t tell me was how he got it.”
I waited.
“There was some kind of patient-data project.”
My stomach tightened.
“What patient data?”
“I don’t know specifics.”
“Try.”
“Fertility treatment outcomes. Hormone profiles. Implantation rates. Genetic screening.”
I shut my eyes.
“Did the patients consent?”
“I assumed they did.”
“But now?”
“Now I’m not sure.”
“Why?”
“Because six months ago, I prepared a presentation for investors. There was an old slide from Meridian marked ‘legacy restricted.’ David told me never to use it.”
“What was on it?”
“A chart showing patient cohorts.”
“Names?”
“Codes.”
“Do you remember any?”
“No.”
“Vanessa.”
“I’m trying.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated.
“One code started with LW.”
My stomach turned.
Lauren Whitmore.
“That could mean anything.”
“I know.”
“Do you still have the presentation?”
“No.”
“Can you access it?”
“Maybe.”
I stood.
“Don’t do anything illegal.”
She gave a humorless laugh.
“Funny. That’s exactly what David told me last night.”
“What else did he say?”
“That I should leave town for a few weeks.”
A chill moved across my skin.
“Why?”
“He said the divorce was getting ugly and you were trying to destroy the company.”
“I haven’t touched his company.”
“I know.”
“Then why would he say that?”
“I think he’s scared.”
“Of what?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then Vanessa said something unexpected.
“I know you hate me.”
“Yes.”
“I deserve that.”
“Yes.”
“But he lied to me about you.”
“That doesn’t erase what you did.”
“I know.”
She sounded close to tears.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking whether you want my help.”
I looked out the window.
David’s betrayal had taught me not to trust convenient allies.
Especially guilty ones.
“What kind of help?”
“I can find out what Meridian was.”
I thought of Megan’s frightened call.
Of the red sticker.
Missing biological material.
“No,” I said.
Vanessa sounded surprised.
“No?”
“If there are files, preserve them. Don’t access anything you’re not authorized to access. Send my attorney whatever you legally possess.”
“You really have changed.”
“No.”
I looked down at my flat stomach.
“I’ve stopped letting David decide what kind of woman I’m allowed to be.”
After we hung up, another email arrived.
From Sterling’s records administrator.
RE: WHITMORE, LAUREN — RECORD RETRIEVAL DELAYED
My request had been placed on hold.
Reason:
Legal review pending.
Nathaniel called immediately.
“I just received the same notice.”
“Why legal review?”
“Because someone asserted a confidentiality restriction over part of your chart.”
“Who?”
“We’re finding out.”
Two hours later, we had an answer.
The restriction had been requested by an attorney representing Meridian Biogenics.
My fertility file was apparently connected to corporate litigation.
Nathaniel’s tone became sharper.
“This is no longer simply a divorce issue.”
“What do I do?”
“Nothing publicly.”
“What about David?”
“Communicate through me.”
“And my babies?”
“Keep every medical appointment.”
I placed my hand over my stomach.
“Could they be in danger?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the worst answer.
That night, I finally told my mother.
She lived in Cincinnati and arrived before breakfast the next morning.
My mother, Helen, was sixty-seven, retired from teaching, and possessed the terrifying calm of a woman who had raised three daughters and once chased a burglar out of her garage with a snow shovel.
She listened to everything.
When I finished, she stood.
“Where does David live now?”
“Mom.”
“I’m only asking.”
“You cannot hit my husband with a snow shovel.”
“Ex-husband.”
“Not yet.”
“Fine. Future ex-husband.”
For the first time in days, I laughed.
Then Mom took my hand.
“You are going to protect those babies.”
“I know.”
“And yourself.”
“I’m trying.”
“No.”
She squeezed my fingers.
“You’re going to stop thinking protecting yourself is selfish.”
That afternoon, the twins’ heartbeat recording played through my phone.
Two rapid rhythms.
Two reasons to stay standing.
Then Nathaniel called.
“We got something.”
My pulse jumped.
“What?”
“A court filing from the Sterling investigation.”
“And?”
“Meridian paid Sterling $6.2 million over four years for access to reproductive-health data.”
“That’s legal if patients consented.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
“There was a sealed complaint filed by a former embryologist.”
I gripped the phone.
“What did she allege?”
“That some patient samples were collected without valid informed consent.”
My mouth went dry.
“Samples?”
“Endometrial tissue. Blood. Oocytes.”
Eggs.
The word struck like a physical blow.
“Did they take my eggs?”
“We don’t know.”
“How could someone retrieve eggs without me knowing?”
“You would need medication and a procedure.”
I thought about the weeks before that forgotten appointment.
Sterling had prescribed injections.
They told me they were regulating my hormones for diagnostic testing.
David administered them.
Every night.
He had kissed my stomach afterward.
I felt sick.
“Nathaniel.”
“Yes?”
“They gave me injections.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Find the boxes if you still have them.”
“I don’t.”
“Pharmacy records.”
I opened my laptop immediately.
Within twenty minutes, I found an old prescription history.
Three medications.
Nathaniel sent the names to Dr. Shah.
She called me herself.
“Lauren, these medications can be used in ovarian stimulation protocols.”
I stopped breathing.
“They told me it was diagnostic.”
“They can have different uses. I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
“But it’s possible?”
“Yes.”
“Possible that they stimulated my ovaries?”
“Yes.”
“Possible they retrieved eggs?”
Silence.
“Lauren, retrieval typically requires sedation.”
I remembered waking with cramps.
Not remembering the drive home.
David holding the heating pad.
I whispered, “Oh my God.”
And then I realized the most terrifying part.
May you like
If Sterling had taken my eggs without my knowledge—
What happened to them?
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