"Ethan Carver was admitted to St. Agnes an hour ago."

Rachel set her phone on my desk. Her eyes were bright.

"Is he okay?"

"High fever. Mild anemia. They want to give him a small transfusion. Nothing serious." She paused. "But they'll need his blood type."

I didn't smile. I just reached for my coffee.

"Then I guess Liam's about to have a very long night."

---

**Liam**

"Mr. Carver? You can sit with him now."

The nurse pulled back the curtain. Ethan lay in the hospital bed, cheeks flushed, a thin tube taped to the back of his small hand. He looked smaller than he did at home.

"Daddy," he mumbled. "My arm feels cold."

"I know, buddy. It's just medicine." I squeezed his ankle through the blanket. "You're tough. You're a Carver."

The doctor came in holding a tablet. Middle-aged, tired eyes, a coffee stain on his sleeve.

"The transfusion's routine. We'll have him home by tomorrow."

"Good." I rubbed my face. Clara's voice wouldn't leave my head. *Go home and check your son's blood type.* "Doc, what's his blood type, anyway?"

"Type AB."

"AB." I nodded. Then I frowned. "I'm type O. Is that... normal?"

"Depends on the mother. What's Mrs. Carver's type?"

"O. Same as me." I laughed a little. "We used to joke about it. Universal donors. Like we were made for each other."

The doctor stopped scrolling.

He looked up at me. Then down at the tablet. Then up again.

"Mr. Carver, are you sure about that?"

"Sure about what?"

"Your wife's blood type. And yours."

"I've donated blood every year since college. I'm O. Mia's O. She had it on her pregnancy chart." My chest tightened. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

The doctor set the tablet down on the counter. His voice went careful, the way people talk to a man standing on a ledge.

"Two type-O parents can only have a type-O child. Genetically, there's no other outcome."

The room tilted.

"Then the lab made a mistake."

"We can rerun it. But we typed him twice. Standard procedure before a transfusion."

"Run it again."

"Mr. Carver—"

"I said run it again!"

Ethan flinched in the bed. His eyes went wide and wet.

"Daddy, why are you yelling?"

I stared at him. Really stared. The dark hair. The dark eyes. The ears that stuck out a little. The low forehead I'd always told myself he'd grow out of.

*Sort of like a monkey that hasn't finished evolving yet.*

Clara knew. She'd known at that party.

"I'm not yelling, buddy," I said. My voice came out hollow. "Daddy just needs some air."

I walked into the hallway and pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over Mia's name for a long time.

Then I called her.

"Liam?" She picked up on the first ring. "How is he? Is my baby okay?"

"He's type AB, Mia."

Silence.

"What?"

"Ethan's blood type. It's AB. You and I are both O." My jaw hurt from clenching it. "You want to explain that to me?"

"I... Liam, hospitals make mistakes all the time—"

"They tested it twice."

"Then they're wrong!" Her voice climbed too high, too fast. "Are you seriously accusing me? I gave you a son. I gave you everything!"

"Who is he?"

"Who is who?"

"The guy, Mia. Who were you sleeping with?"

She hung up.

---

**Clara**

At 2:14 a.m., my phone lit up.

"She's moving," Rachel said. "Our driver's tailing her. She's headed east."

"Toward the clinic."

"Toward the clinic."

I sat up in bed and opened my laptop. Three weeks ago, I'd bought that ugly little building on Mercer Street through a shell company. Bought the equipment. Bought the files. Bought the doctor's silence and his loyalty, with a bonus for good acting.

And I'd installed six cameras.

The feed flickered on. A dim waiting room. Cracked vinyl chairs. A water cooler with no water.

The door burst open.

Mia came in wearing a black hoodie over silk pajamas. No makeup. Hair in a messy knot. She looked ten years older than she had on Channel Four.

"Hello?" She rapped her knuckles on the reception glass. "I need to see Dr. Pruitt. Now."

Dr. Pruitt shuffled out from the back, scratching his gray beard. He played his part perfectly.

"We're closed, lady."

"You remember me." She ripped her hood down. "Six years ago. I paid you cash. I picked a donor."

"I get a lot of customers."

"Mia Lowell. I picked a donor named Noah." Her voice dropped to a hiss. "I need those records gone. The paper files. The computer files. Everything."

"That's a big ask."

"That's why I brought this."

She pulled a checkbook from her purse and scribbled across it with shaking hands. She tore the check out and slapped it on the counter.

Dr. Pruitt picked it up. His eyebrows jumped.

"Two million dollars?"

"Burn it all tonight. Tonight, and it's yours."

Rachel whistled softly in my ear. "That's Liam's money, by the way. Their joint account."

"Of course it is."

On screen, Dr. Pruitt slid the check back across the counter.

"Sorry. Can't help you."

Mia's face went white. "Three million."

"It's not about the money."

"Everything is about money!"

"Not anymore." He shrugged. "I sold the place. New owner has all the files. I just work here now."

"Sold it?" Mia grabbed the edge of the counter. "To who?"

"Couldn't tell you. Some company."

"Then call them! Call them right now! I'll pay whatever they want!"

"Lady, it's two in the morning."

And then Mia Lowell, the perfect society wife, the woman who'd lectured the whole country about loyalty, dropped to her knees on that filthy linoleum floor.

She grabbed the doctor's pant leg with one hand. With the other, she shoved the check into his coat pocket.

"Please," she sobbed. "Please. If my husband finds out, I lose everything. My house. My name. My son. He'll throw me out like he threw *her* out. Please, I'm begging you."

Dr. Pruitt looked straight into the hidden camera above the door.

He winked.

I laughed out loud, alone in my dark hotel room.

"Clara?" Rachel said. "You okay?"

"I'm perfect." I tapped my screen and saved the clip. Then saved it again to a second drive. "Did we get audio?"

"Every word."

On the feed, Mia was still on the floor, mascara-free tears running down her chin, clutching a stranger's leg like a life raft.

Five years ago, I'd knelt in the mud for my suitcase.

Now it was her turn.

"Rachel," I said. "Send the doctor home. Tell him he did good."

"And the footage?"

"Keep it close for now."

I was reaching to close the laptop when Dr. Pruitt bent down and said something to Mia, quiet. Too quiet for the mic.

Her head jerked up.

She stopped crying.

Slowly, she turned and looked directly into the camera. Straight at me.

And she smiled.

Exactly the way she had through that glass door five years ago.