Call an ambulance right now, Marcus—my daughter’s water just broke on your mother’s marble floor! I screamed, kneeling over Maya as fluid flooded her silk dress.
The detective’s office was cramped, lit by the harsh glow of a single overhead fluorescent light. Detective Cross sat opposite me, the encrypted drive connected to a secure laptop. Hank Burke leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and impending truth.
“Alright, Dr. Washington,” Detective Cross began, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “Let’s see what Marcus Holloway was so desperate to hide.”
The screen flickered, displaying lines of code, medical charts, and lab reports. Hank pointed to a section. “Here it is. The paternity DNA results.”
My eyes scanned the screen, searching for Maya’s name, Marcus’s. Then I saw it, stark and unequivocal: “Father: Unknown.” And below it, “Marcus Holloway: Excluded.”
“Marcus is not the biological father of Maya’s baby,” Hank stated, confirming the unspoken.
A cold wave washed over me. “He feigned paternity. All to claim that $10 million family trust endowment. It’s tied to carrying a Holloway heir.”
Detective Cross nodded, a grim satisfaction on his face. “That explains a lot. Financial motive for an elaborate deception.”
He scrolled further, revealing a different set of data. “And these are the raw trial telemetry logs. Dr. Washington, you were right. Marcus intentionally administered an unapproved labor-inducing compound to Maya at the vineyard.”
My breath hitched. “He forced her into labor.”
“Before a scheduled federal audit the very next morning,” Hank added, his voice tight. “He needed that trial completion data, no matter the cost. He sacrificed his wife for his career and his bank account.”
Detective Cross clicked another file. An audio icon appeared. “And this… this was recovered from a secured partition in Marcus’s private office server. It’s a recorded call with an unnamed pharmaceutical representative.”
He pressed play. Marcus’s voice, calm and clinical, filled the room.
“The uterine stimulant showed 40% maternal mortality risk in animal trials, yes, I understand,” Marcus said. “But the preliminary human data indicates a faster onset. We need to push for immediate results. I’m willing to accept that risk profile for the expedited approval. My patient understands the experimental nature.”
My hands clenched. He knew. He knew the danger. Forty percent maternal mortality. He had risked Maya’s life, his own wife’s life, with full knowledge of the horrific odds. He hadn’t just lied; he had viewed her life as completely expendable.
The call ended. The silence that followed was deafening, suffocating. The triple betrayal was laid bare: the paternity fraud, the induced labor, and the cold, calculated risk to Maya’s life. My grandson had been born into a web of deceit and deadly ambition, and my daughter had nearly paid the ultimate price.
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