Alex sat in his car outside the old law office for almost ten minutes before he could make himself walk inside.
The building looked smaller than he remembered.
Six years ago, he’d walked through those doors with Elena’s divorce papers in his briefcase.
He had believed he was ending one chapter of his life.
Now he wondered if he’d ended the wrong one.
The receptionist recognized him immediately.
“Mr. Vance?”
Alex nodded.
“I’m looking for an envelope. My name on it. Elena Rivas left it here about six years ago.”
The woman’s expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“You’ll need to speak to Mr. Whitmore.”
His old attorney.
The man who had handled his divorce.
Alex’s stomach tightened.
“Is he here?”
“He’s been expecting you.”
Alex stopped.
“Expecting me?”
She didn’t answer.
She simply pointed toward the hallway.
Mr. Whitmore was standing in his old office when Alex entered.
The furniture had changed.
The carpet had changed.
But the enormous walnut desk was still there.
So was the photograph of Alex and Elena from their wedding day.
Whitmore noticed him looking at it.
“I never took that down.”
Alex swallowed.
“Where is the envelope?”
Whitmore opened a drawer.
Then another.
Finally, he reached beneath a stack of old files and removed a thick cream-colored envelope.
Alex’s name was written across the front.
Not typed.
Handwritten.
Elena’s handwriting.
His fingers went cold.
“Why didn’t you give this to me?”
“Because she told me not to.”
“She told you to keep my mail?”
“She told me that if you ever came back asking about the children, I was to give it to you.”
Alex stared at him.
“The children?”
Whitmore nodded.
“Those exact words.”
Alex took the envelope.
It was heavier than it should have been.
“What is inside?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never opened it?”
“I was your attorney, Alex. Not your wife.”
Alex almost laughed.
Almost.
Then he saw something written beneath his name.
A date.
The date he had signed the divorce papers.
His hand trembled as he opened it.
Inside was a letter.
Four photographs.
And one folded medical report.
He unfolded the letter first.
The first line made him stop breathing.
Alex,
If you’re reading this, it means you’ve finally found out about the children.
His vision blurred.
He continued.
I wanted to tell you the night I found out I was pregnant.
Alex closed his eyes.
That night.
The night he’d walked through their front door carrying a suitcase.
The night he’d told Elena he needed to leave.
The night she’d said nothing.
He read on.
I took the test three times because I didn’t believe it. I called the doctor the next morning. He confirmed the pregnancy.
Then I went home and waited for you.
Alex’s jaw tightened.
You came home with your suitcase.
You told me you couldn’t spend the rest of your life wondering whether staying with me meant giving up being a father.
A tear slipped down his cheek.
He didn’t wipe it away.
I had the test in my purse.
I wanted to show you.
But I didn’t.
Alex whispered, “Why?”
The next sentence answered him.
Because I needed to know whether you wanted me—or only the possibility of a child.
He stopped reading.
For several seconds, he couldn’t move.
Then he forced himself onward.
You chose to leave.
So I decided you would never know.
The letter shook in his hands.
But then he reached the part that made his blood run cold.
There weren’t four babies, Alex.
He stared at the page.
There was one.
Alex’s heart slammed against his ribs.
One?
He looked again at the photograph he’d seen on television.
Four children.
Two boys.
Two girls.
All around five years old.
All bearing pieces of his face.
He kept reading.
The doctors told me something I didn’t understand at first.
My pregnancy was complicated.
The four children on television are not four children I gave birth to at the same time.
Alex frowned.
Then he saw the next paragraph.
They are quadruplets.
His hand went numb.
You have four children because your fertility doctor made a mistake that no one discovered until it was too late.
Alex stared at the words.
The room seemed to tilt.
Whitmore was watching him.
“What’s wrong?”
Alex couldn’t answer.
He continued reading.
When you and I went through fertility treatment, there were embryos created from your sperm and my eggs.
Four embryos survived.
Alex’s mouth opened.
No sound came out.
The clinic told us none had been viable enough to transfer.
That was a lie.
His heart began pounding.
Someone transferred all four.
Alex looked up sharply.
Whitmore’s face had gone pale.
“Keep reading,” the attorney whispered.
Alex lowered his eyes.
I didn’t know the truth until years later.
By then, the four children had already been born.
I was told the clinic had made a catastrophic error.
But it wasn’t an error.
Alex’s breathing stopped.
Because beneath the letter was a copy of the medical report.
And across the top were four names.
Not the children’s names.
Four embryo identification numbers.
And beneath them, a handwritten note.
TRANSFERRED WITHOUT PATIENT CONSENT.
Alex looked at Whitmore.
“Who did this?”
Whitmore didn’t answer.
Alex unfolded the final page.
There was a second letter.
This one wasn’t from Elena.
It was from the fertility clinic.
And it was addressed to Alex.
Mr. Vance,
We are contacting you because the physician responsible for your treatment has admitted that the records associated with your case were altered.
Alex felt sick.
The physician.
He remembered him.
Dr. Samuel Carter.
The man who had looked Alex in the eye six years ago and said:
“I’m sorry. You may never have biological children.”
Alex read the next sentence.
Four embryos created from your genetic material were transferred to Elena Rivas without her knowledge and without authorization.
Alex dropped the letter onto the desk.
Whitmore leaned forward.
“There is more.”
Alex looked at him.
“What?”
Whitmore opened another file.
“This came with Elena’s envelope.”
He pulled out a photograph.
Alex picked it up.
It showed Elena standing outside the fertility clinic five years earlier.
She was pregnant.
Very pregnant.
And beside her stood a man Alex hadn’t seen in years.
His mother.
Beatrice.
Alex’s face drained of color.
“No.”
Whitmore said nothing.
Alex turned the photograph over.
There was a handwritten message on the back.
Ask your mother why she paid the doctor.
Alex stared at it.
His mother.
The woman who had told him he wasn’t going to ruin his life for Elena.
The woman who had spent years insisting Elena could never give him an heir.
The woman who had encouraged his divorce.
Alex grabbed his phone.
He called her.
She answered on the third ring.
“Alex?”
His voice was barely recognizable.
“Mom.”
A pause.
“Where are you?”
“I know about the children.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Then Beatrice whispered:
“Who told you?”
Alex closed his eyes.
That was all he needed.
He stood.
“You knew.”
“Alex, listen to me—”
“You knew Elena was pregnant.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“You paid Dr. Carter.”
Another silence.
Then his mother began crying.
Not denying it.
Crying.
Alex’s hand tightened around the phone.
“Why?”
Beatrice finally spoke.
“Because Elena wasn’t supposed to have those children.”
Alex felt a chill move through him.
“What does that mean?”
“Those embryos weren’t supposed to be hers.”
“What?”
His mother took a shaky breath.
“Your father had another agreement.”
Alex frowned.
“With who?”
Beatrice whispered a name.
A name Alex had never heard before.
Then she said:
“The four children were meant to belong to the Vance family.”
Alex’s blood ran cold.
“Mom…”
“And Elena found out.”
Alex couldn’t breathe.
“Found out what?”
His mother’s voice dropped to almost nothing.
“That you weren’t the only man whose DNA was used.”
The line went silent.
Alex stared at the phone.
Then it rang again.
Unknown number.
He answered.
A man’s voice spoke immediately.
“Mr. Vance?”
“Who is this?”
“You need to stop looking for Elena.”
Alex stood perfectly still.
“Why?”
“Because your mother isn’t the person you should be afraid of.”
Alex’s heart pounded.
“Then who?”
The man paused.
Then said:
“Your father.”
Alex went cold.
“My father died twelve years ago.”
“I know.”
“Then who are you?”
The man’s voice became quieter.
“I’m the man who has been protecting your four children for the last five years.”
Alex gripped the phone.
“Where are they?”
A pause.
Then:
“Ask Elena why she never told you their real names.”
The call ended.
Alex slowly lowered the phone.
Whitmore was staring at him.
“What did he say?”
Alex looked at the four photographs on the desk.
For the first time, he noticed something he’d missed.
Each photograph had been taken separately.
Each child had a different birth certificate.
Different hospitals.
Different mothers listed.
Alex’s eyes widened.
The four children had been born in four different places.
But all four birthdays were exactly the same.
Five years and two months ago.
And on the back of the fourth photograph, Elena had written only seven words:
One of them knows who killed your father.
Alex stopped breathing.
His father hadn’t died of natural causes.
And Elena had known it all along.