TEN DAYS TO SAVE THE MERCER TWINS

By the time I reached the medical suite, Blythe’s oxygen level had fallen into the seventies.

A physician from the independent team was already at his bedside. Dr. Priya Shah had arrived ten minutes earlier with two nurses, a portable diagnostic unit, and the kind of expression that did not waste time on fear.

“What happened?” I asked.

“We’re stabilizing him,” she said. “Give me space.”

I hated giving anyone space near my sons.

I did it anyway.

Elena stood beside Jonah’s bed with both hands wrapped around his. He was crying silently, watching his brother through the clear divider.

“Dad,” he whispered. “Is Blythe dying?”

“No.”

My answer came too quickly.

Jonah heard the lie.

Elena looked at me, then at him.

“He’s very sick,” she said gently. “And Dr. Shah is working hard to help him.”

Jonah nodded because children will accept truth more easily than false certainty.

I remembered that.

Twenty minutes later, Blythe’s oxygen climbed. Dr. Shah stepped away from the monitors and pulled me into the hall.

“He is unstable, but he is not dying right this minute.”

“Why did he crash?”

“Several possibilities. Infection. Treatment toxicity. Disease progression. I need his full records.”

“They’re being copied.”

“I want raw lab data, not summaries.”

Something in her tone made me study her.

“You suspect the summaries?”

“I suspect anything I didn’t personally verify.”

I liked her immediately.

I gave Prescott the order. Within the hour, every server connected to the twins’ care was being mirrored by an outside forensic team.

Then I showed Dr. Shah Genevieve’s report.

She read it twice.

“This is not meaningless,” she said.

“What does it tell you?”

“It tells me their early genetic screening identified a drug-processing risk that should have been flagged permanently. It also references a hematology research archive I recognize.”

Elena leaned forward. “Latham?”

“No. St. Catherine’s Pediatric Cell Program. It closed five years ago.”

“Why?”

“Funding dispute, according to the public story.”

“And according to the private one?” I asked.

Dr. Shah looked at me.

“Some specimens disappeared.”

The room seemed to tighten.

I handed her the access number.

Her eyes narrowed.

“This format belongs to St. Catherine’s.”

“What kind of specimen?”

“I can’t know until I see the archive.”

Prescott said, “Archive is closed.”

“Buildings close,” I replied. “Records usually go somewhere.”

Elena spoke quietly. “Genevieve found where.”

We all looked at her.

“She left me one more thing.”

I felt anger rise before she finished.

“You waited until now?”

“I waited until I knew you weren’t going to throw me out.”

She removed the necklace and held it beneath the light. The silver chain looked ordinary. The blue stone did not.

Elena twisted the setting.

The stone opened.

Inside was a tiny rolled strip of paper.

I stared at it.

Genevieve had always hated digital secrets. She used to say anything connected to a network eventually belonged to someone else.

Elena flattened the paper on the table.

There were only three words and an address.

LAKEVIEW STORAGE — 3147 N. BROADWAY

B-19.

Prescott was already calling ahead.

I turned to Elena. “You’re staying here.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“Genevieve rented the unit under my name.”

That stopped me.

“Why?”

“Because she thought yours was being watched.”

I almost laughed at the irony. My entire life was built on surveillance and counter-surveillance, yet my wife had been hiding from my shadow.

Dr. Shah looked between us.

“If that unit contains original records, bring them. But do not waste hours. The boys do not have hours to spare.”

I left half my best people with her.

Then I took Prescott and Elena downtown.

Lakeview Storage occupied three floors above a closed furniture store. The manager recognized Elena’s name after seeing her old identification and the rental receipt folded inside the necklace paper.

Unit B-19 held no boxes.

It held a child’s yellow raincoat, one metal document case, and a framed photograph.

I knew the raincoat.

Genevieve had worn it the day we found out she was pregnant.

The photograph showed her standing beside Elena in front of Latham Reproductive Medicine. Genevieve was smiling. Elena looked younger, heavier, less tired. Behind them stood Franklin Yates.

And Adrian Mercer.

My cousin.

My oldest friend.

The man who had helped carry Genevieve’s coffin.

“What was Adrian doing there?” I asked.

Elena shook her head. “I never knew his name. He came to the clinic twice with Dr. Yates.”

Prescott opened the metal case after the manager provided the old key.

Inside were copies of medical records, payment ledgers, and a sealed envelope with my name in Genevieve’s handwriting.

LAWSON — ONLY IF THEY GET SICK.

My hands stopped working.

Prescott turned away to give me privacy.

I opened it.

Lawson,

If you are reading this, then the thing I feared happened.

The boys may inherit the blood risk from my side of the family. If they become ill, Franklin will tell you he has done everything. He has not.

The archive number belongs to paired immune-cell samples created for Jonah and Blythe under a research protocol I paid to preserve privately. They were collected and stored because of the risk markers. I did not tell you because Franklin said revealing the protocol could expose the boys publicly, and I believed him then.

I no longer do.

Do not let Franklin control their treatment alone.

Trust Elena Ward.

And please understand this: Adrian knows.

The next line had been written so hard the pen had torn the paper.

If anything happens to me, do not believe it was an accident.

I read the sentence again.

Then again.

For two years I had visited Genevieve’s grave on Sundays.

For two years I had blamed rain, speed, bad luck, and the cruel randomness of the world.

Now my dead wife was telling me from a locked storage unit that she had expected to be killed.

Prescott swore softly.