Chapter 7 - The Traitor Inside the House
Jonah survived the seizure.
Barely.
By sunrise, his fever had fallen to 103.
Blythe’s remained lower.
The antibiotics were working slowly.
Too slowly.
Dr. Yates gave us twenty-four hours.
“If cultures don’t improve by tomorrow morning, transplant conditioning becomes almost impossible.”
Adeline had begun stem-cell mobilization.
Every joint in her body hurt.
She walked like someone twice her age.
Still, every time Jonah opened his eyes, she smiled.
Every time Blythe asked if Addie was okay, she lied.
“I’m perfect.”
At eight that morning, Prescott found me in the security room.
“We identified the tactical leak.”
“Odette?”
“No.”
“Yates?”
“No.”
“Who?”
He pulled up camera footage.
Mrs. Odette’s assistant entered the supply corridor four days earlier.
A twenty-eight-year-old man named Kyle Benton.
Quiet.
Polite.
Worked at the estate nine months.
I barely knew him.
He stopped beneath a security camera, pretending to tie his shoe.
Prescott zoomed in.
The man attached something beneath a wooden console.
A listening device.
“How much information did he get?”
“Enough.”
“Where is he?”
“Missing.”
“When?”
“Left during the blackout.”
“Find him.”
“We’re trying.”
I turned.
Prescott didn’t move.
“What else?”
“Rourke says Benton wasn’t their only person.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“He doesn’t know.”
“Convenient.”
“He claims Crosby compartmentalizes everyone.”
I looked through six monitor feeds showing armed guards moving through my home.
“Anybody could be his.”
“Yes.”
“Even you.”
Prescott smiled humorlessly.
“Still me?”
“Always a possibility.”
“I appreciate the trust.”
“It’s why you’re still alive.”
My phone buzzed.
Unknown message.
One photograph.
Odette’s son Malcolm tied to a chair.
Timestamped twenty minutes earlier.
Text below:
KEY. WOMAN. MIDNIGHT.
I showed Prescott.
“Can we trace it?”
“Already trying.”
Odette entered behind us.
She saw the photograph.
Her knees buckled.
I caught her.
“My baby.”
Malcolm was thirty-seven years old.
Married.
A father.
To Odette, he was still her baby.
“We’ll get him back.”
She grabbed my jacket.
“You don’t trade Miss Addie.”
I stared.
“They’ll kill Malcolm.”
“I know.”
“And you’re telling me not to trade her?”
Odette’s face filled with tears.
“Mrs. Mercer trusted me.”
“Genevieve is dead.”
“And I will not betray her because I’m afraid.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Fear had controlled everyone.
Genevieve.
Adeline.
Yates.
Odette.
Maybe even me.
I had built my entire life around preventing fear by becoming the thing other people feared.
And still, fear had entered my house.
That afternoon, Adeline’s first stem-cell collection began.
She sat in a recliner beneath warm blankets while blood moved from her body through a machine and back again.
Blythe watched through glass.
“Is that stealing her blood?”
“No,” I said.
“Looks like stealing.”
“They give most of it back.”
“Why?”
“Because we only need certain cells.”
She stared seriously.
“Can I give some back when I’m better?”
“To Addie?”
“Yes.”
I smiled.
“You can ask.”
Blythe pressed her palm against the glass.
Adeline saw.
She lifted her own hand.
Palm to palm through the window.
Something tightened in my throat.
“She really looks like Mommy.”
“Yes.”
“Does that hurt you?”
The question stunned me.
“You’re six.”
“So?”
“Nothing.”
I looked at my daughter.
“Sometimes.”
“Me too.”
I crouched beside her.
“Looking like Mommy doesn’t make Addie Mommy.”
“I know.”
“She isn’t here to replace anyone.”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
Blythe frowned.
“Daddy?”
“What?”
“You say too many words when you’re sad.”
I stared.
She walked away.
Genevieve had said the exact same thing.
At 4:30, the first collection ended.
Dr. Yates looked hopeful.
“Cell count is strong.”
“For one child?”
“Possibly enough for Jonah.”
“And Blythe?”
“We collect again tomorrow.”
Adeline closed her eyes.
“Fine.”
“Your hemoglobin dropped.”
“Fix it.”
“You need rest.”
“Tomorrow.”
She tried to stand.
Her knees failed.
I caught her.
“I’m fine.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Stop saying that.”
She looked up.
For one terrible second, holding Genevieve’s twin in my arms felt like holding my wife.
I released her immediately.
Adeline noticed.
“I’m not her.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I told you to stop apologizing.”
She sat again.
Prescott appeared.
“Lawson.”
His face meant bad news.
Always.
“What?”
“We located the phone that sent the photograph of Malcolm.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
Adeline looked up.
“Inside the estate?”
“Yes.”
My blood chilled.
“Whose phone?”
Prescott hesitated.
Then turned the screen toward me.
The registered device belonged to one person.
Dr. Franklin Yates.
Again.
I found him in the laboratory.
This time, I put him against the wall.
“Lawson!”
“Your phone sent Vane a picture of Malcolm.”
“What?”
Prescott grabbed the device from Yates’s pocket.
Yates stared.
“That isn’t my phone.”
“It’s registered to you.”
“My phone disappeared this morning.”
“You didn’t report it?”
“I thought I misplaced it!”
Prescott opened the device.
“No password.”
“That’s not mine.”
Someone had planted it.
I stepped back.
Yates rubbed his throat.
“Think!”
He glared at me.
“You have a sophisticated enemy who already framed me once. Why would I carry evidence in my pocket?”
He had a point.
Prescott examined the phone.
“Only one outgoing message.”
“To me.”
“Yes.”
A planted trail.
Someone wanted Yates blamed.
“Who had access to your coat?”
“Everyone in the staff room.”
A nurse appeared in the doorway.
“Dr. Yates?”
“What?”
“Blythe’s asking for you.”
He rushed away.
I looked at Prescott.
“Who benefits if we remove Yates?”
“Someone trying to disrupt treatment.”
Exactly.
The traitor wasn’t simply collecting information.
They wanted my children dead.
At 7:10 that evening, the answer arrived.
Not from security.
From Jonah.
He had become more alert as his fever decreased.
I was helping him drink water when he frowned toward the hallway.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“The medicine man was here.”
“What medicine man?”
“The one who smells funny.”
My entire body changed.
“When?”
“Last night.”
“During the blackout?”
He nodded.
“What did he do?”
“Touched Blythe’s bag.”
I forced my voice calm.
“What did he look like?”
“White hair.”
“Dr. Yates?”
“No.”
“Glasses?”
“Yes.”
Something clicked.
Dr. Samuel Krell.
A consulting hematologist brought in six weeks ago.
Silver hair.
Glasses.
A sweet-smelling antiseptic cologne.
“Did he touch your medicine?”
Jonah nodded.
“Said he was making it better.”
I hit the call button.
Yates entered moments later.
“What’s wrong?”
“Where is Krell?”
He frowned.
“Samuel?”
“Where?”
“He left after rounds.”
“Check every medication bag he touched.”
Yates stared.
Then understood.
The laboratory results came thirty minutes later.
Blythe’s IV bag contained something not prescribed.
A chemotherapy agent.
At a dose high enough to further suppress her marrow.
Yates looked sick.
“If she received the entire bag…”
“What?”
“She might not have survived tonight.”
My knees nearly failed.
Jonah had seen him.
A six-year-old boy with a 103-degree fever had noticed what an entire security network missed.
Prescott’s team searched the estate.
Krell was gone.
His vehicle was gone.
His credentials were fake.
His medical license belonged to a real physician in Arizona who had never been to Illinois.
Crosby had planted a fake doctor beside my children.
I called Vane.
He answered immediately.
“You’re getting sloppy,” I said.
He laughed.
“You found Samuel.”
“He won’t get another chance.”
“No.”
His voice became almost cheerful.
“Because now you understand the clock.”
“What do you want?”
“I already told you.”
“Adeline and the key.”
“You can have neither.”
“Then perhaps tomorrow you’ll have only one child.”
I nearly crushed the phone.
“You touch them again—”
“What? You’ll kill me?”
He laughed.
“So many threats, Lawson.”
Then his voice went cold.
“Genevieve threatened me too.”
I stopped.
“What did she threaten?”
“To expose Elias.”
My grip loosened.
“Where is he?”
“Closer than you think.”
The call ended.
I turned toward Prescott.
Before I could speak, the elevator opened.
A man stepped into the corridor.
Tall.
Dark coat.
Gray at the temples.
He raised both empty hands.
Security weapons immediately pointed at him.
He looked directly at me.
I recognized the jaw.
The eyes.
My father’s eyes.
“Lawson Mercer?”
I knew before he said it.
“My name is Elias.”
My half brother looked toward the room where Jonah and Blythe were sleeping.
Then back at me.
“And if you want your children to live, you need to stop hunting Crosby Vane.”
I raised my weapon.
May you like
Elias smiled sadly.
“Because Crosby isn’t the man who killed your wife.”
