For several seconds after the doctor said Richard Sterling’s name, I heard nothing else.
Not the ventilation in Natalie’s study.
Not the faint clink of dishes from the kitchen.
Not Rebecca asking Oakfield to repeat the wording exactly.
Only one sentence remained.
Someone had tried to change the paternal-source notation from Carter Sterling to Richard Sterling.
“That has to be impossible,” I said.
The chief medical officer answered carefully.
“We are not saying Richard Sterling was the genetic contributor.”
“Then why is his name in the request?”
“That is what we are investigating.”
Rebecca’s voice sharpened.
“Who submitted the amendment?”
“We do not have a verified individual identity yet.”
“Method?”
“An electronic records request routed through an old administrative portal.”
“Credentials?”
“Not Elaine Mercer’s.”
I looked at my laptop.
For the first time in days, that answer surprised me.
“Whose?”
The doctor hesitated.
“The request used credentials associated with a former Oakfield physician.”
“Name.”
“Dr. Samuel Vale.”
I did not recognize it.
Rebecca did.
Her expression changed.
“Vale was Lauren’s reproductive endocrinologist.”
The room seemed to narrow.
I remembered him immediately.
Gray hair.
Soft voice.
Always wearing the same silver watch.
He had supervised the cycle that produced all four embryos.
“Is he still practicing?”
“No,” the doctor said.
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Retired in Arizona, according to our records.”
Rebecca asked, “Have you contacted him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He denies submitting the request.”
Of course he did.
Another dormant account.
Another old credential.
Another attempt to make the system say something it had not said before.
I pressed one hand against the desk.
“Why would anyone try to make Richard the genetic father?”
Nobody answered.
Because there was no reasonable answer.
Not yet.
Rebecca finally said, “We need the original embryology records.”
“We are assembling them.”
“Not summaries. Not migrated data. Original source records.”
“We understand.”
“Chain of custody.”
“Yes.”
I looked toward the window.
Rain had returned.
Seattle blurred behind it.
The possibility forming in my mind felt absurd.
I rejected it before giving it words.
Richard could not be the father of embryos Carter and I created.
I remembered the retrieval.
The day.
The labels.
The clinic.
Carter sitting beside me.
Everything had been ordinary within the strange world of IVF.
No.
This had to be another manipulation.
A false amendment designed to confuse parentage.
But why?
Rebecca said, “Lauren, I want you to do something.”
“What?”
“Write down everything you remember from that IVF cycle.”
“I remember enough.”
“No. Write everything.”
“Why?”
“Because memory changes once people know what they’re looking for. I want your recollection before we see more documents.”
She was right.
I hated that she was right.
I opened a notebook.
Retrieval date.
Transfer dates.
Which nurse called.
When Carter provided his sample.
That detail stopped me.
I looked up.
“Carter wasn’t with me during retrieval morning.”
Rebecca became still.
“Why?”
“He had a board meeting.”
“Who took you?”
“Margaret.”
I felt another cold line run down my back.
It had been years ago.
Before Emma.
Before the fake letter.
Margaret had driven me to Oakfield because Carter said he could not leave an emergency board session.
He arrived later.
I remembered being annoyed.
Then forgiving him because he showed up before the procedure.
“What about the sperm sample?” Rebecca asked.
“I assumed he had already provided it.”
“Did you see him?”
“No.”
“Did anyone tell you specifically he had?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Write that.”
I did.
The doctor interrupted.
“Ms. Sterling, the cycle documentation lists Carter as the paternal contributor.”
“Yes.”
“That remains our official record.”
“Then why is someone trying to change it?”
“We don’t know.”
After the call, I sat alone for nearly an hour.
Natalie knocked once.
I told her to come in.
She looked at the notebook.
“More?”
“Yes.”
She waited.
I finally said, “Someone tried to change the IVF record to say Richard was the father.”
Her face went blank.
“Richard as in Carter’s father?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe it?”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly.
Natalie sat across from me.
“What are you afraid of?”
“That this entire story has one more floor underneath it.”
She did not offer reassurance.
That was why I trusted her.
Instead she asked, “What would change if Richard actually were the biological father?”
I stared at her.
“Everything.”
“For the trust?”
I paused.
That was the first practical answer.
If Richard were the paternal genetic source, then the male embryo would not be Carter’s son.
He would be Carter’s half-brother.
And Richard’s direct son.
The succession provision might operate entirely differently.
I felt sick.
“So maybe the amendment wasn’t hiding something.”
Natalie waited.
“Maybe it was trying to reveal something.”
The thought frightened me more.
Rebecca called again before dinner.
“Oakfield found Dr. Vale’s archived personnel file.”
“And?”
“He had a consulting relationship after retirement.”
“With Sterling?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“A private reproductive laboratory called Northlake Genetics.”
I frowned.
Never heard of it.
“Why does that matter?”
“Northlake handled some genetic testing for high-net-worth patients.”
“High-net-worth.”
“Yes.”
I knew what was coming before she said it.
“Sterling family?”
“At least one account.”
“Richard?”
“We’re verifying.”
My phone buzzed while we spoke.
Victoria.
She had found something in William’s storage unit.
Again.
I answered.
“Please tell me this one is boring.”
“It isn’t.”
“What?”
“Grandpa had a file marked Vale.”
Rebecca heard through speaker.
“Samuel Vale?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“What’s inside?”
“Letters.”
“Between whom?”
“Grandpa and Dr. Vale.”
Rebecca immediately said, “Do not alter anything. Photograph the file where it is.”
Victoria replied, “Already did.”
She sent the first image.
The letter was twelve years old.
Before Carter and I started fertility treatment.
William Sterling to Dr. Samuel Vale.
Thank you for your discretion regarding Richard’s request. I remain opposed to any reproductive arrangement involving genetic material obtained or used without fully documented consent.
I stopped breathing.
Rebecca whispered, “Oh my God.”
The next letter was from Vale.
I have refused the proposed collection and storage arrangement unless all relevant parties provide written authorization.
I read it twice.
“What collection?”
Victoria sent another page.
Richard’s name appeared.
Not in the body.
In a handwritten note from William.
R. believes preserving his own genetic material is necessary in case Carter proves unable to produce a male child.
The sentence made me physically cold.
Years before Carter and I created our embryos, Richard had apparently explored storing his own sperm as a contingency.
I looked at Rebecca.
“This doesn’t mean he used it.”
“No.”
“But it means the idea existed.”
“Yes.”
The oldest absurdity had suddenly become possible.
Richard’s obsession with a male heir had not begun with my embryos.
It predated them.
I asked Victoria, “Anything connecting this to our IVF?”
“Not yet.”
She turned pages.
Then stopped.
“What?”
“There’s a later note.”
“How much later?”
“About nine years ago.”
Our IVF year.
She read aloud.
Vale contacted me again. Richard has raised the contingency plan. I told him under no circumstances should he interfere with Carter and Lauren’s treatment.
I closed my eyes.
William knew.
At least enough to worry.
“Any response from Vale?”
“Yes.”
Victoria sent the image.
Dr. Vale’s handwriting was difficult but legible.
I assured William that patient identifiers and gamete sources would be handled according to protocol. Richard’s proposal will not be accommodated.
I exhaled.
There.
Refusal.
Protocol.
Maybe the nightmare ended there.
Then Victoria said, “There’s something written in the margin.”
“What?”
“Grandpa wrote: I do not trust Richard to accept Vale’s answer.”
The sentence sat between us.
Not proof.
A warning.
I called Margaret.
Against Rebecca’s preference, but with her listening.
Margaret answered immediately.
I asked one question.
“Did Richard ever store sperm at Oakfield?”
Silence.
Not confusion.
Silence.
That told me enough to continue.
“Margaret.”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know something.”
“He talked about it.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“Before Chloe?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
“He had some ridiculous fear that Carter might not be able to have children.”
“Was Carter infertile?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Richard believed the family line needed insurance.”
Insurance.
That family had a word for every human being except person.
“Did Richard actually provide a sample?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you go with him?”
“No.”
“Did Dr. Vale?”
“I don’t know.”
I believed she truly did not.
Then she said, “But Richard kept a Northlake account.”
I froze.
“What kind of account?”
“Genetic services.”
“For what?”
“I never asked.”
“Do you have records?”
“Maybe.”
“Where?”
“The house office.”
Richard’s safe was empty, but not every cabinet.
Rebecca told her not to search alone.
Margaret ignored her.
Five minutes later, she sent a photograph.
An old invoice.
Northlake Genetics.
Client: Richard Sterling.
Service:
CRYOSTORAGE — MALE REPRODUCTIVE SPECIMEN.
Date:
Fourteen years earlier.
Richard had stored sperm.
That still did not mean it had ever reached my IVF cycle.
But now we knew his genetic material existed.
We also knew Dr. Vale knew of Richard’s contingency plan.
The next morning, Oakfield delivered the original laboratory worksheets.
Rebecca and I reviewed them with an independent reproductive specialist.
The first pages looked ordinary.
My patient ID.
Egg count.
Fertilization methods.
Embryo development.
Then the specialist stopped.
“What?” I asked.
She pointed.
“There’s an accession discrepancy.”
“Meaning?”
“The paternal sample listed here has a source code different from the one in the main chart.”
My mouth went dry.
“What source code?”
She read it.
NL-4471.
Northlake.
I knew before Rebecca confirmed it.
“That’s not Carter’s normal patient ID.”
“No.”
The specialist searched the attached specimen receipt.
Northlake Genetics had transferred a cryopreserved sample to Oakfield on the morning of my egg retrieval.
Recipient physician:
Samuel Vale.
The donor name field was blacked out on the copy Oakfield had retained.
But the accession number matched Northlake’s invoice series.
Richard’s account.
I stared at the paper.
My hands went cold.
The specialist looked at me carefully.
“This still does not prove which sample was used for fertilization.”
“What would?”
“The embryology bench log.”
Rebecca turned pages.
It was missing.
Not blank.
Missing.
A numbered sheet had been removed.
The specialist counted.
Page thirty-two.
Page thirty-four.
No page thirty-three.
And page thirty-three would have recorded which paternal specimen was physically used.
Someone had removed the one sheet that could answer the question directly.
Rebecca immediately called Oakfield.
The clinic searched scanned archives.
Nothing.
Then physical microfilm.
Nothing.
The page had vanished before digitization.
I looked at the embryos’ genetic testing reports.
Four embryos.
Chloe.
Emma.
The lost female embryo.
The boy.
If Richard’s sample had been used, every one of them could genetically be his children with me.
Including my daughters.
I pushed the reports away.
“No.”
Rebecca said my name.
“No.”
Not because it was impossible.
Because Chloe and Emma were upstairs.
Living their ordinary lives.
One building a school project.
One arguing about socks.
They did not deserve to have their identities torn apart by adult obsession.
Rebecca said gently, “We do not know that anything was switched.”
“I know.”
“Official records still list Carter.”
“I know.”
“We test evidence, not fear.”
I nodded.
That became the sentence I held onto.
Evidence.
Not fear.
Then Oakfield’s forensic team called again.
They had recovered an old email from Dr. Vale’s archived account.
Sent the night before my retrieval.
To Richard Sterling.
Subject:
Tomorrow.
Body:
I will not substitute your specimen. Do not ask me again.
I exhaled hard.
Relief came fast.
Then Rebecca scrolled.
There was a reply.
Richard:
Understood.
Two minutes later, another email left Richard’s account.
Not to Vale.
To Elaine Mercer.
One line.
Then we handle the accession before he arrives.
I stared at it.
Elaine had been working records.
She had access to specimen intake.
And Richard had just told her to “handle the accession” after Vale refused the substitution.
The scheme might have started before the embryos even existed.
Click here to continue reading: PART 18: Richard’s Message to Elaine Turned Our IVF Cycle Into a Possible Crime Scene, and Margaret Finally Admitted What She Saw That Morning
Five Minutes After Our Marriage Ended, Carter Said Something That Made Leaving With Our Daughters the Only Choice
Part 17 of 35
