Prescott Had Stopped the Search Because Adrian Told Him the Children Were Ineligible

Chapter 08 - Prescott Had Stopped the Search Because Adrian Told Him the Children Were Ineligible

Prescott did not deny canceling the donor search.

His lawyer tried.

Prescott stopped him.

“Yes.”

One word.

I watched through a recorded proffer later.

“Why?”

Prescott looked older than fifty-three.

“Adrian called.”

Of course.

“What did he say?”

That Genevieve had initiated an unauthorized registry search based on an unconfirmed hereditary diagnosis.

That outside testing could expose confidential Argent research data.

That Franklin Yates believed transplant evaluation was premature.

Prescott called Yates.

Yates agreed.

So Prescott canceled.

No doctor had given him authority.

No parent had.

He had administrative access.

That was enough.

“Did you tell Lawson?” the federal attorney asked.

“No.”

“Why?”

Prescott looked down.

“Because Genevieve was dead.”

“That explains nothing.”

He breathed.

“Lawson was not functioning.”

My hands tightened watching.

He continued.

“He slept two hours a night. He carried Blythe into his office because she wouldn’t stop crying. Jonah stopped speaking for eleven days.”

I remembered.

“Adrian said he would handle the medical side.”

Prescott looked sick.

“I let him.”

Then the payment.

$1.8 million.

Adrian’s Argent subsidiary paid Prescott two months later.

Not simply reputation work.

Part of it was a success fee for containing “unauthorized data dissemination.”

Prescott knew that phrasing.

Took the money anyway.

“Did you know the canceled donor search might affect the children’s survival?”

“No.”

“Should you have known it was not your decision?”

“Yes.”

No murder required for betrayal.

Then another question.

“Did Adrian ask you to destroy Genevieve’s phone?”

“Yes.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Prescott almost laughed.

“Because by then I didn’t trust him.”

Too late.

Not nothing.

He hid it instead.

Protected himself.

Protected me.

Preserved evidence accidentally.

All three.

Then the donor search.

Dr. Patel’s team contacted both old candidate donors through the registry.

One was no longer eligible after a later health diagnosis.

The other remained potentially available for Jonah.

Blythe would need a renewed search.

No miracle.

Still.

A path.

Jonah’s donor was a thirty-two-year-old teacher in Oregon.

He did not know the recipient’s identity.

Correct.

Blythe’s search found several partial matches within days and one promising matched donor pending confirmatory testing.

A registry coordinator explained the process to me twice because the first time I kept asking questions that money had trained me to ask.

Could I pay to accelerate testing?

No.

Could I fly a donor anywhere necessary?

Only if the registry and collection center approved.

Could I know the donor’s identity?

No.

Could I send a private physician?

No.

Could I offer compensation?

Absolutely not.

Every answer sounded like a locked gate.

For once, the gates were protecting someone from me.

The donor had to remain free to say yes or no without a billionaire’s grief entering the room.

I hated that.

Then understood why it mattered.

We waited.

Waiting became the new form of violence.

Blythe developed a fever.

Jonah needed platelet support.

One night, Elena found me in the family lounge staring at a vending machine.

“You have to press a button.”

“I know.”

“You’ve been standing there three minutes.”

“I’m negotiating.”

“With crackers?”

“Yes.”

She pressed B7.

Peanut butter crackers fell.

I looked at her.

“Presumptuous.”

“You look like you need salt.”

I almost smiled.

Then hated myself for it.

Genevieve had been dead two years.

Elena was not Genevieve.

The necklace made that harder.

I said:

“You should stop wearing it.”

Her face changed.

Then I heard how it sounded.

“No.”

I corrected.

“I mean—”

She waited.

“Genevieve said it goes to Blythe someday.”

“Yes.”

“Seeing it on you…”

I stopped.

Elena touched the stone.

“Hurts.”

“Yes.”

She took it off.

Not because I ordered.

Because I told the truth.

She put it in a hospital valuables envelope.

Wrote:

PROPERTY OF BLYTHE MERCER — WHEN SHE CHOOSES.

Then signed her own name beneath.

That undid me more than the necklace had.

She handed the envelope to hospital security, not Mercer security.

Then she said:

“I’m leaving the estate job.”

I frowned.

“You don’t have an estate job.”

“Martha put me on temporary household payroll after you brought me in.”

Of course she had.

Practical women create employment faster than billionaires create decisions.

“Why leave?”

“I didn’t come here to become dependent on you.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m wearing your staff uniform.”

Fair.

“I need money.”

She did not hide that.

“My rent is gone. My car is gone. I’ve been sleeping in weekly rooms since my last caregiving contract ended.”

I looked at her.

“How much do you need?”

Her expression hardened.

Wrong.

I closed my mouth.

She continued.

“I applied for a records-integrity coordinator job at St. Catherine’s.”

“The hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Do they know about all this?”

“They know I’m a witness in a medical-record investigation. Legal is reviewing conflict.”

“Do you want me to—”

“No.”

I almost laughed.

“Right.”

“Exactly.”

She looked toward the twins’ rooms.

“I’ll stay through Blythe’s donor confirmation if the hospital allows me as a family guest.”

Not employee.

Guest.

My choice was whether to invite.

I said:

“Yes.”

Then Dr. Patel came down the hall.

Her face told me before she spoke.

Blythe’s first promising donor had failed confirmatory matching.

My stomach dropped.

“Then what?”

“We keep searching.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know.”

I hated that answer.

Trusted it.

Then she held out another report.

“There may be another option.”

“What?”

“A cord-blood unit in a public bank.”

I stared.

“Whose?”

“Anonymous. Stored six years ago. High enough match to consider.”

The unit had been donated from Chicago.

Collection hospital:

St. Catherine Women’s Center.

Date:

The day after Jonah and Blythe were born.

Donor designation:

G.M.

Genevieve Mercer.

I frowned.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

Dr. Patel shook her head.

“It isn’t the twins’ cord blood.”

Then whose?

The unit had come from another birth under Genevieve’s donor authorization.

A birth no Mercer family record mentioned.

Genevieve had signed as emergency medical proxy for the mother.

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Mother’s name:

Elena Ward.