Chapter 3 - The DNA ReportNathan’s mind refused to accept the numbers.
Zero percent.
Claire sat in the rocking chair with Sophie against her shoulder.
“Nathan, look at me.”
He did.
“I have never been with anyone else.”
Margaret scoffed.
“Of course she says that.”
Nathan did not turn around.
“Mom, leave the room.”
“Nathan—”
“Now.”
Something in his voice made her stop.
Margaret walked out, but not before saying:
“You’ll thank me when you stop being blind.”
The door closed.
Claire began crying.
Nathan knelt in front of her.
“Tell me everything.”
Claire swallowed.
“Your mother started acting strange the week Sophie was born.”
“How?”
“She kept asking for copies of the birth certificate. Your Social Security number. My insurance card.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did.”
Nathan remembered.
Claire had texted:
Your mom keeps asking for paperwork. Can you talk to her?
He had replied between meetings:
She’s probably trying to help. I’ll deal with it this weekend.
He never did.
Claire continued.
“Then she started telling me I looked unstable. That I cried too much. That I held Sophie too much.”
Nathan felt sick.
“She took pictures when I was exhausted. She recorded me crying one night.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know.”
Now they did.
A custody story.
A paternity story.
A father always at work.
Nathan held up the lab report.
“Where did she get Sophie’s DNA?”
Claire looked toward the changing table.
“Two weeks ago she offered to wash the pacifiers.”
Nathan stared.
“And mine?”
Claire hesitated.
“Your toothbrush disappeared.”
He remembered replacing it.
He thought it had fallen behind the sink.
Then Claire reached beneath the rocking chair and pulled out a clear plastic bag.
Inside was another test kit.
Unopened.
“I found this in her purse.”
Nathan read the label.
Same laboratory.
Different case number.
“Why would she have two kits?”
Claire whispered:
“Because I don’t think the first sample was yours.”
Nathan looked at her.
Then his phone rang.
It was the private DNA lab.
He answered.
A nervous administrator said:
“Mr. Brooks, we received your message disputing the result.”
“I didn’t send a message.”
Silence.
Then:
“Sir, someone requested the original sample records under your name fifteen minutes ago.”
May you like
Nathan turned toward the hallway.
Margaret was gone.
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