Chapter 12 - The Bloodline Discrepancy
The pediatric intensive care unit was freezing cold, smelling of harsh antiseptic and medicinal alcohol.
James drove through red lights with white-knuckled desperation while I cradled Hope in the back seat.
Her skin looked pale under the streetlights, her tiny chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid bursts.
Liam had stayed home with the younger boys, locking every window and deadbolt just as I had instructed.
When we burst through the sliding glass doors of the hospital, Dr. Sterling was already waiting with two nurses.
She took Hope gently from my arms, her face grim beneath her surgical mask.
"Her bilirubin levels are spiking off the charts," Dr. Sterling explained, rushing down the bright corridor toward trauma bay three.
"A rare maternal Rh-null variant is attacking her red blood cells from an unknown donor source."
James chased after the gurney, his face twisted in raw, unadulterated terror.
"Sarah was O-positive," James shouted, his voice cracking against the sterile tile walls.
"I read Sarah’s medical files ten times when we did the storage transfer twelve years ago!"
"Sarah could not have carried this antigen, James," Dr. Sterling replied without breaking her stride.
"If Sarah was the egg donor, this baby would be completely stable right now."
They pushed Hope through double doors marked RESTRICTED ACCESS, leaving James and me trapped in the hallway.
I turned on James, my hands shaking so violently I had to press them against the cold wall to stay upright.
"What did you do, James?" I demanded, the tears spilling burning hot down my cheeks.
"Tell me what you hid from me before my daughter dies in that room!"
"I swear to God, Claire, I don't know!" James cried, sinking to his knees on the hospital floor.
"I signed the storage paperwork the day Sarah entered hospice."
"Eleanor was the executor of Sarah’s estate back then, Claire."
"Eleanor handled the transfer to the private cryo-bank in Boston while Sarah was unconscious."
The puzzle pieces in my mind snapped together with terrifying, sickening clarity.
Eleanor had not spent millions in court just to claim her daughter's legacy.
Eleanor was protecting a crime she had committed more than a decade ago.
The double doors swung open, and Dr. Sterling walked out, stripping her latex gloves off with a heavy sigh.
"We’ve stabilized her for the next twelve hours with an emergency plasma exchange," she announced quietly.
"Where did you get the matching plasma?" I asked, choking back a sob of relief.
Dr. Sterling looked at us with deep, searching confusion.
"Someone delivered a pre-matched, anonymous donor bag to our blood bank two hours before you arrived."
"The courier left a note with Hope's name and this address written on it."
Dr. Sterling handed me a folded slip of cream-colored stationery.
May you like
Written in delicate, spidery cursive was a single, chilling sentence.
*If you want the cure for the second child, bring James to the greenhouse.*
