Chapter 8
Nathan was arrested.
Claire was taken to the hospital.
Sophie stayed in my arms.
Nobody could take her from me.
A paramedic asked if he could examine her.
I held her while he did.
She was frightened.
Cold.
Hungry.
But unharmed.
Again.
Twice in twenty-four hours, my daughter had survived because someone arrived seconds before disaster.
I wasn’t going to rely on seconds anymore.
Detective Morales approached me after Nathan was secured.
“Daniel.”
“What did he mean?”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
“He told me to ask my mother who Sophie belongs to.”
“He was trying to destabilize you.”
“Was he?”
Morales didn’t answer.
That was enough.
“What did you find?”
“We need to verify information.”
“What information?”
“Daniel.”
I stepped closer.
“Is Sophie my daughter?”
Claire, lying on a stretcher nearby, heard me.
Her eyes opened.
“Daniel.”
I turned.
She looked devastated.
Not frightened.
Devastated.
That terrified me.
I walked toward her.
Morales followed.
Claire’s wrists were restrained to the stretcher.
She had cuts on her feet from running barefoot.
A bruise darkened her jaw.
“Nathan is lying,” she said.
“About what?”
She began crying.
“Claire.”
“I never wanted you to find out like this.”
The parking lot disappeared around me.
“What?”
She looked at Sophie.
I instinctively pulled my daughter closer.
Claire closed her eyes.
“Daniel, you are her father.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“You are.”
“Biologically?”
Silence.
My stomach collapsed.
“Biologically?”
“I don’t know.”
I stared at her.
The words seemed impossible.
“You don’t know?”
“Daniel—”
“You don’t know?”
A paramedic stepped closer.
Morales raised a hand to keep everyone calm.
Claire cried harder.
“It happened once.”
I felt like I had been struck.
“With Nathan?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
She shook her head.
I did the math before she answered.
Nine months before Sophie’s birth.
“While we were married.”
“I was scared.”
“Stop saying you were scared.”
“He came back into my life.”
“And you slept with him.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like?”
She looked away.
I lowered my voice because Sophie was crying.
“You lied to me every day.”
“I loved you.”
“You kidnapped our daughter.”
“I was trying to protect her.”
“You pushed her stroller toward stairs.”
“I know.”
“You forged my signature.”
“Nathan did.”
“You hid money.”
“He used my account.”
“You lied about being married.”
“I was ashamed.”
“You lied about my father.”
“I was afraid.”
“And now you’re telling me you don’t know whether Sophie is mine.”
Claire’s face crumpled.
“I prayed she was.”
I stared.
That sentence hurt more than everything else.
I looked down at Sophie.
She had my last name.
My house.
My lullabies.
My ridiculous little habit of sneezing twice every morning.
She smiled when I entered rooms.
She grabbed my nose when I fed her.
She said da-da before ma-ma.
None of that changed.
And somehow everything had.
Claire whispered, “Daniel.”
I looked at her.
“No.”
“What?”
“You don’t get to make this about biology.”
Hope flashed across her face.
I crushed it.
“You also don’t get to use Sophie to keep me.”
Her eyes closed.
The ambulance took her away.
I refused to ride with her.
I went with Sophie.
At the hospital, social services met me.
They explained that Claire would have no unsupervised contact while the investigation continued.
A temporary protection order was requested.
Nathan would remain in custody pending charges.
I listened.
Signed.
Answered questions.
Then, at four in the morning, I called Mom.
She was still hospitalized for observation.
“Are you okay?” she asked immediately.
“Sophie is safe.”
Mom started crying.
I closed my eyes.
“Thank God.”
“Mom.”
She heard my tone.
“What?”
“Nathan said something.”
Silence.
I continued.
“He told me to ask you who Sophie really belongs to.”
Mom didn’t answer.
“Claire says she slept with Nathan.”
A broken breath came through the phone.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
I almost dropped the phone.
“How?”
“Daniel—”
“How?”
“I found a paternity test box.”
My heart pounded.
“Sophie’s test.”
The secret list.
I closed my eyes.
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
“Where?”
“In your trash.”
“You went through our trash?”
“I was looking for documents.”
“Of course you were.”
“Daniel, I’m sorry.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“I am.”
“You knew my wife might have cheated on me and said nothing.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You found a paternity test.”
“An unopened-looking box.”
“Looking?”
“The seal had been cut.”
I swallowed.
“Did you see results?”
“No.”
“Then why did you suspect?”
“Because Claire caught me with the box.”
My body stiffened.
“What happened?”
“She grabbed it from me.”
“And?”
“She said it belonged to a friend.”
“You believed that?”
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“I took a picture of the serial number.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Of course you did.”
“I called the company.”
“Did they give you results?”
“No. Privacy laws.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
I was so tired of that sentence.
Everybody was protecting me by hiding things from me.
Mom.
Claire.
Even Dad before he died.
“I want the truth from now on.”
“You have it.”
“No.”
I looked through the glass wall at Sophie sleeping in a hospital bassinet.
“I want all of it.”
Mom was silent.
“Did Dad think Nathan killed him?”
“What?”
“Did Dad think he was in danger?”
Mom didn’t answer.
“Mom.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“What happened?”
“Two days before your father died, he told me Nathan knew the investigation had turned.”
“Turned?”
“Your father originally thought Claire was involved. Then he realized Nathan had created accounts in her name.”
“So Claire was innocent?”
“Not completely.”
My jaw tightened.
“What did she do?”
“She helped move money.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she know it was stolen?”
“Your father thought she eventually did.”
“And then?”
“She tried to leave Nathan.”
I thought about Claire’s fear.
He controlled me.
Maybe some of it was true.
Maybe truth and manipulation had become impossible to separate.
“What did Dad plan to do?”
“Go to the police.”
“And he died first.”
“Yes.”
“Natural causes?”
“That’s what the coroner said.”
“You don’t believe it.”
Mom started crying quietly.
“I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
“Why was the file stolen?”
“I think Nathan wanted the financial records.”
“And the flash drive?”
“Your father gave it to me the night before he died.”
I sat down.
“You’ve had it for four years?”
“Yes.”
“What’s on it?”
“Copies of transfers. Emails. Audio.”
“What audio?”
“A conversation between your father and Nathan.”
My heart pounded.
“Why didn’t you take it to police?”
“I was scared.”
“Four years?”
“After Robert died, someone broke into the office. Then someone came to our house.”
I froze.
“What?”
“I never told you.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“They didn’t take anything. But I knew they were looking.”
“So you hid it.”
“Yes.”
“And yesterday you mailed it to Dad’s attorney.”
“Yes.”
“Why him?”
“Because Robert trusted him.”
I rubbed my eyes.
“Police need that drive.”
“I know.”
“Give Morales the tracking number.”
“I already did.”
A nurse entered and told me Sophie was ready to be discharged.
I thanked her.
Mom said quietly, “Daniel.”
“What?”
“No matter what the test says, you’re Sophie’s father.”
I looked at my daughter.
“I know.”
And I did.
That part was surprisingly easy.
What wasn’t easy was deciding whether I wanted the test.
By noon, I knew I did.
Not because it could change how I felt about Sophie.
Because Nathan had weaponized uncertainty.
I refused to let him keep that power.
A court-approved test was arranged as part of the investigation.
My sample.
Sophie’s sample.
Claire’s consent was not required for my own comparison.
Results would take several days.
I brought Sophie to Mom’s house after police finished processing the scene.
A temporary alarm system was installed.
An officer remained outside.
For the first time in two days, I held my daughter in a quiet room.
No police.
No shouting.
No Claire.
No Nathan.
I fed her.
She fell asleep against me.
I cried.
Not loudly.
Just enough that tears dropped into her hair.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
She slept.
My phone buzzed.
Detective Morales.
“We have the flash drive.”
I stood.
“You got it from the attorney?”
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?”
“The package never reached him.”
I felt cold.
“Then how do you have it?”
Morales paused.
“Nathan had it.”
I stared at the wall.
“How?”
“We found it sewn into the lining of his jacket.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Apparently not.”
“Mom mailed it yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“So Nathan intercepted the mail?”
“We’re investigating.”
I thought about Mom’s house.
The open door.
The attack.
Nathan knew exactly where the drive was.
Maybe he hadn’t gone there just for Sophie.
Maybe Sophie was leverage.
“What’s on it?”
“We’ve started reviewing it.”
“And?”
Another pause.
“Daniel, there’s a recording your father made.”
My grip tightened.
“Of Nathan?”
“Yes.”
“What does he say?”
“You should hear it yourself.”
“Tell me.”
Morales sighed.
“Your father accused Nathan of stealing nearly six hundred thousand dollars.”
I closed my eyes.
“And?”
“Nathan threatened him.”
My pulse rose.
“What kind of threat?”
Morales’s voice lowered.
“He said, ‘People with bad hearts shouldn’t make enemies.’”
I stopped breathing.
My father had a heart condition.
Managed.
Stable.
Nathan knew.
“What else?”
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“Your father says he knows Nathan switched his medication.”
May you like
I whispered, “What?”
“And Nathan doesn’t deny it.”
