Chapter 3 - The Clinic's Shadow
The Escalade didn't head toward the docks or the police station. It glided through the morning traffic and pulled into the underground parking garage of the Vance Enterprises tower—a gleaming fifty-story monolith of glass and steel.
Clara was escorted into a private executive elevator by Julian and Reynolds. The triplets had been taken ahead in a secondary vehicle with their nannies, leaving the elevator cabin suffocatingly quiet.
"Why did you say Mercy General?" Clara asked, staring at the changing floor numbers on the digital display. "What does my hospital have to do with you?"
Julian didn't look at her. He kept his eyes fixed on the doors. "My wife died fourteen months ago, Clara. She didn't die in an accident, as the papers reported. She died of a congenital heart failure three weeks after our children were brought home."
"Brought home?" Clara’s brow furrowed. "She didn't give birth to them?"
"No," Julian’s jaw clenched. "Sarah’s heart couldn't survive a pregnancy. We used a private fertility agency. The elite one on the North Side. The Vanguard Institute."
The elevator cabin seemed to drop out from under Clara’s feet. She grabbed the brass handrail to keep from collapsing. "Vanguard..." she whispered, the name tasting like ash on her tongue. "That... that was my agency. That was where I signed the surrogacy contract."
Julian turned his head slowly, his amber eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "When did you sign, Clara?"
"Two years ago," she gasped, her chest tight. "They told me the parents were anonymous overseas diplomats. I underwent the transfer in October. I delivered at Mercy General in May. Emergency C-section."
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to the penthouse suite, but neither of them moved.
"My children," Julian said, his voice dropping into a register so cold it burned, "were delivered by emergency C-section at Mercy General on the twelfth of May. Vanguard transferred them to my private medical wing six hours later."
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Clara shook her head violently, tears blinding her. "No. No, Dr. Thorne told me they didn't make it. He showed me the paperwork. He told me my babies died of respiratory failure!"
"Dr. Thorne," Julian repeated, the name hanging in the air like a death sentence. "Is the chief medical consultant on Vanguard’s payroll. And he is currently sitting in my conference room waiting for a meeting he thinks is about annual donations."
