Chapter 5 - THE FILE VANESSA WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO FIND
Rebecca wanted me to report the threatening message immediately.
I wanted to know who had sent it.
We did both.
The hospital's security office preserved the message, and Rebecca arranged for a digital forensic specialist to examine the recording. I also scheduled an appointment with my obstetrician, determined not to let fear interfere with the care of my pregnancy.
The ultrasound showed a tiny gestational sac consistent with an early pregnancy.
It was too soon for certainty.
I left with another appointment, a list of precautions, and the first photograph of my second chance at motherhood.
I slipped the ultrasound printout into my coat pocket.
For the first time in days, I allowed myself to imagine a future that didn't involve Vincent.
Then the clinic called.
The compliance director, Dr. Samuel Price, had reviewed the initial records and wanted to meet in person.
Rebecca insisted on attending.
We arrived at Harrington Center the following morning.
Dr. Price was a neatly dressed man in his fifties who looked as though he hadn't slept. He led us into a conference room and closed the door.
“I've reviewed the documents you've provided,” he began. “There are inconsistencies in the records concerning Ms. Reed's treatment.”
“Inconsistencies?” Rebecca repeated.
“Potential unauthorized alterations.”
“By whom?”
“We're investigating.”
I leaned forward.
“Did your clinic transfer an embryo associated with my medical record?”
Dr. Price hesitated.
“The current record indicates that an embryo transfer occurred.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I cannot confirm that an embryo originating from your eggs was ever transferred. Our laboratory records do not support that conclusion.”
My hands went cold.
“So Vincent lied.”
“We have not yet established who altered the documents.”
“Did I sign the consent form?”
“Our electronic system records an authorization under your name.”
“I never signed it.”
Dr. Price looked down.
“Then we need to investigate possible identity misuse.”
Rebecca slid the transfer form across the table.
“Who had access to these records?”
“Authorized clinic personnel, the patients, and individuals granted account access.”
“Could Mr. Moretti have accessed Dr. Moretti's account?”
“Yes, if he had her login credentials or had been granted proxy access.”
I remembered Vincent helping me set up the clinic portal years ago.
He had known my passwords.
He had known everything about me.
My appointment schedule. My medical history. My fears.
The knowledge that had once made marriage feel intimate now felt like a map someone had used to find every vulnerable part of me.
“Who altered the file?” I asked.
Dr. Price shook his head.
“We don't know yet.”
“Then what do you know?”
He opened a second folder.
“Six months ago, our clinic received a substantial payment from a company called VMR Holdings.”
Rebecca and I exchanged a look.
“The same company that received money from our joint account,” I said.
“Yes.”
“What was the payment for?”
“An account credit associated with Ms. Reed's treatment.”
I stared at him.
Vincent had moved our money into his company, then used it to finance Vanessa's fertility treatment.
But the embryo records were still unexplained.
“There's something else,” Dr. Price said.
He removed a printout from the folder.
“An employee accessed your historical records three weeks before the transfer was scheduled. That employee was not assigned to your case.”
“Who?”
He turned the page toward us.
The name belonged to a senior embryology technician.
Marlene Shaw.
I recognized it from the clinic's online staff directory.
Rebecca wrote it down.
“Has she been interviewed?”
“Not yet. She's currently on leave.”
“Convenient,” Rebecca said.
Dr. Price looked uncomfortable.
“I understand your frustration. But I must protect patient confidentiality while this investigation proceeds.”
“And what about my confidentiality?” I asked. “Someone has already used my name without permission.”
He had no answer.
As we left, Rebecca received a call from the forensic specialist.
The audio recording Vanessa had supplied was genuine enough to warrant further investigation, but the copy contained an unexplained gap. The original file appeared to have been edited before it was copied.
That didn't prove it was false.
It meant we couldn't treat it as complete.
“Vanessa needs to preserve the original device,” Rebecca said.
“I'll call her.”
I dialed her number.
It went straight to voicemail.
I tried again.
Nothing.
By the time we reached the parking lot, Rebecca had received another message from her investigator.
Vanessa had checked out of her hotel that morning.
Her room was empty.
Her phone was switched off.
And the front desk had reported that a man in a dark coat had waited outside her room for nearly twenty minutes before she left.
I felt the same cold fear that had followed the anonymous threat.
“Could Vincent have taken her?” I asked.
“Possibly,” Rebecca replied. “But we don't have evidence of that.”
“What if something happened to her?”
“Then we contact the police and give them what we know.”
She made the call.
I stood beside her, staring at the falling snow.
My husband had created a financial trail, falsified—or helped falsify—medical documents, and concealed the truth about his relationship with Vanessa.
Now Vanessa had disappeared.
I had spent years believing that the most painful thing a marriage could survive was betrayal.
I was beginning to understand that betrayal was sometimes only the first door.
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Behind it waited the people who had helped make it possible.
And one of them might have been working inside the very clinic that was supposed to protect us.
