Chapter 5 - ST. CATHERINE’SSt. Catherine’s Hospital stood abandoned beneath the snow like a corpse nobody had buried.
Malcolm drove.
I sat beside him with two security vehicles behind us.
“You know this is obviously a trap,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Excellent. I enjoy confirming that my employer has lost his mind.”
“You could resign.”
“My wife likes the dental insurance.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Then we reached the hospital.
The front doors were chained.
The side entrance was open.
That was worse.
Inside, the building smelled of dust, wet plaster, and old antiseptic.
My flashlight swept across faded murals.
Then memory hit.
Blue walls.
A nurse holding my arm.
Jonathan shouting.
My father saying, This is for his own good.
I stopped.
Malcolm noticed.
“You remember?”
“Pieces.”
We followed fresh footprints downstairs.
Basement.
Of course.
Every terrible family secret apparently required a basement.
At the end of the corridor, light spilled beneath a door.
I opened it.
A man sat inside.
Thin.
Gray-haired.
Bearded.
Alive.
Jonathan.
For six years I had imagined this moment without knowing I was imagining it.
I thought I would run to him.
I didn’t.
I hit him.
My fist caught his jaw.
He fell sideways.
Malcolm sighed.
“I’ll wait outside.”
Jonathan touched his bleeding lip.
“I deserved that.”
I hit him again.
“That one too.”
Then I grabbed my brother and held him.
Hard.
He made a broken sound against my shoulder.
So did I.
For thirty seconds we were not billionaires or liars or survivors.
We were boys again.
Then I shoved him away.
“You let me bury you.”
“I know.”
“You let your son believe you were dead.”
His face changed.
“I had to.”
“No. Dead men have to be dead.”
“Caleb tried to kill me.”
That stopped me.
Jonathan sat heavily.
“The boat accident wasn’t an accident.”
“Caleb?”
“He discovered I planned to expose Vale.”
“Why would he care?”
“Because Caleb had already invested in Vale’s research.”
“At twenty-two?”
“Through trusts your father created.”
Jonathan rubbed his face.
“Caleb grew up hearing Grandfather talk about bloodlines. Legacy. Genetics. He became obsessed.”
“With what?”
“Creating the perfect Mercer heir.”
My stomach turned.
“Clara.”
Jonathan nodded.
“She wasn’t random.”
I wanted to kill someone.
“Explain.”
“Her mother worked for us. Clara’s genetic profile entered Vale’s database through Diane’s old employee insurance records. No hereditary cardiac mutation. High fertility markers. Caleb selected her years ago.”
“Selected?”
Jonathan looked sick.
“His plan was to use her donated eggs with Mercer genetic material.”
“Whose?”
“He wanted mine initially.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because I’m mutation-negative.”
“But?”
“I refused.”
“So he used someone else.”
Jonathan looked at me.
“We don’t know.”
My skin went cold.
“The hormones.”
“He’s been preparing Clara’s body.”
“Without consent.”
“Yes.”
Rage became something cleaner.
Purpose.
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
“I tried.”
“For six years?”
“You think I was on vacation?”
Jonathan lifted his shirt.
Scars crossed his ribs.
“I spent eighteen months in a private psychiatric facility under another name. Caleb had me declared unstable. After I escaped, anyone I contacted became a target.”
“So you hid.”
“I gathered evidence.”
“While Clara suffered.”
His eyes hardened.
“Do you think I’m proud of that?”
“No.”
“Good.”
We stared at each other.
Brothers again.
Angry enough to be honest.
Then Jonathan gave me a folder.
Inside were financial records.
Judges.
Police.
Doctors.
Politicians.
Caleb hadn’t bought the entire city.
He had bought enough of it.
“Diane’s conviction?”
“Fabricated.”
“Can we prove it?”
“Yes.”
“Then why isn’t she free?”
Jonathan looked confused.
“She should be.”
“She escaped tonight.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I arranged her release.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“Anonymous evidence delivered to the Innocence Unit. Her conviction was vacated this afternoon.”
Then why had Diane arrived wearing a hospital bracelet?
Jonathan looked at me.
“Ethan, Diane wasn’t in prison tonight.”
“Where was she?”
“St. Anne’s psychiatric ward.”
I remembered her warning.
DON’T TRUST ETHAN MERCER.
Something was wrong.
My phone rang.
Clara.
I answered immediately.
“Ethan?”
Her voice was barely audible.
“What happened?”
“Mom disappeared.”
I turned toward Jonathan.
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Security?”
“She told them she needed the bathroom.”
“Stay with Reyes.”
“Ethan…”
“What?”
“I found something in Mom’s jacket.”
Paper rustled.
“A photograph.”
“Of what?”
“Me.”
Silence.
“When I was a baby.”
I waited.
Then Clara said, “Your father is holding me.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“What?”
“She’s standing beside him.”
“Diane?”
“Yes.”
“And there’s something written on the back.”
“What?”
Clara began crying.
“Ethan, it says…”
Her voice broke.
OUR DAUGHTER, CLARA.
I couldn’t breathe.
“No.”
Jonathan stared at me.
“What?”
I put the phone on speaker.
Clara whispered, “Your father might be my father.”
The room tilted.
Our night together.
The babies.
No.
Jonathan seized the photograph when Clara sent it.
He stared.
Then shook his head violently.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Dad had a vasectomy before Clara was born.”
“That doesn’t prove—”
“I know who Clara’s father is.”
I stared at him.
Jonathan looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.
May you like
Then he said the sentence I never saw coming.
“Me.”
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