My hubby grabbed our baby for the first time, then yelled, “This is not my child, I need a DNA test!”
Then I found the message thread.
Ethan texting someone saved as D:
if the test says she’s mine, i’m screwed. i need an out.
A reply:
then make sure the test doesn’t say that.
My mouth went dry.
I didn’t know who “D” was yet, but I understood the shape of the plan. Ethan wasn’t searching for truth.
He was hunting for an escape hatch.
I screenshotted everything and sent it to myself. Then I called the hospital’s patient advocate line and asked, calmly, for the lab director to note my concern: no unsupervised access to samples, no third-party handling, no early disclosures by phone.
When Ethan returned the next morning, he tried to play calm again. “Results today,” he said, eyes bright with something that wasn’t relief.
I watched him lean near Nina’s station, watched his gaze flick toward a staff-only door.
And I realized, with a sick certainty, that the “DNA test” wasn’t the real danger.
The real danger was what Ethan would do if the truth didn’t serve him.
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