Chapter 4 - The Funeral Without a Child
By sunrise, my life had split into two versions.
In one, I was Selene Hart, broke single mother, maid, professional bill juggler, owner of a twenty-dollar coffee maker that leaked if you looked at it wrong.
In the other, I had a child with Stellan Cross and somebody had used her blood to create a dead baby with a different name.
I preferred the coffee maker.
The independent lab called at 6:12 a.m.
I made Stellan put the phone on speaker.
The result matched Mercer’s.
Paternity probability: 99.99 percent.
Stellan was Fern’s father.
The lie was over.
A worse one had taken its place.
I sat at the end of the long dining table with Fern in my lap and stared at Stellan.
“So you’re Adrian.”
“Yes.”
“You knew my name.”
“Yes.”
“You remembered that night.”
“Yes.”
“And after you disappeared, somebody in your family stole my daughter’s blood and convinced you that your child had died.”
His eyes hardened.
“Yes.”
I pointed at him.
“Do not say yes like we’re confirming a dinner reservation.”
His mouth tightened.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to be as angry as I am.”
He stood so quickly the chair moved backward.
“I buried an empty coffin.”
The room went silent.
His voice cracked on the last word.
That shut me up.
Stellan turned toward the windows.
“I stood beside a grave and listened to my father tell me grief made men weak. I believed my daughter died before I could hold her.”
Fern slapped both hands on the table.
He looked at her.
The anger in his face broke.
I hated that I understood him.
I hated it even more because understanding did not erase what I had lived through.
Mrs. Thornbury entered carrying an old black box.
“I kept this because I knew one day somebody might need proof.”
Stellan stared at her.
“You knew?”
“Not everything.”
She opened the box.
Inside were copies of hospital records, a cremation authorization that had never been completed, and a photograph of a tiny silver ankle tag.
AVA CROSS.
The ID number matched Fern’s bracelet.
I felt sick.
Mrs. Thornbury said, “The night Fern was born, Saint Catherine’s electronic records went down for forty-seven minutes.”
“I remember,” I said. “The nurses said there was a system failure.”
“There was no failure.”
Stellan’s gaze sharpened.
“Who shut it down?”
“I don’t know.”
He stepped closer.
“Agnes.”
“I said I don’t know.”
Fern made a small unhappy sound.
We all lowered our voices automatically.
That would have been funny in another life.
I looked through the papers.
One page showed my admission under my own name.
Another showed an infant girl born at 2:14 a.m.
Mother: SELENE HART.
Father: UNKNOWN.
Then a handwritten correction appeared across the bottom.
INFANT TRANSFERRED TO PRIVATE NICU WING.
I frowned.
“That never happened. Fern stayed on the public floor.”
Mrs. Thornbury looked at Mercer.
Mercer turned pale.
Stellan noticed.
“Marcus.”
“I signed a transfer order that night.”
I stared at him.
“For my baby?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was told there was a credible threat against the infant.”
“From who?”
“Your father,” he said to Stellan.
Stellan went completely still.
I expected rage.
Instead, he whispered, “He told me the same thing.”
I looked between them.
“Wait. Your father told you there was a threat, then told Mercer to move my baby, then later told you she died?”
Nobody answered.
I opened the next page.
It was a security still from the hospital hallway.
A woman in nurse’s scrubs carried a newborn through a service door at 3:02 a.m.
The woman’s face was visible.
I knew her.
She had hired me at the Cross mansion three days ago.
Mrs. Thornbury.
I looked up slowly.
“You took my daughter.”
---
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