Chapter 4
“That’s not enough.”
“No.”
He pulled the chair closer.
He did not sit until I nodded.
“My father kept a file.”
“What file?”
“Your file.”
My mother covered her mouth.
Daniel continued.
“My uncle Jonathan died in a car accident four months before you were born.
My father, Samuel, knew your mother was pregnant.”
I looked at her.
“You cheated on Dad.”
My mother’s face twisted.
“No.”
My father answered.
“We weren’t married yet.”
I stared at him.
He gave a tired smile with no humor.
“Your mother told me before I proposed.”
That hurt in a way I had not expected.
“You knew?”
“From the beginning.”
“And married her anyway?”
My father looked offended.
“I loved her.”
The answer was immediate.
Almost angry.
“I loved her, Emily.
I wanted a life with her.
You were part of that life.”
My eyes burned.
“So all those years…”
“You were my daughter.”
“No conditions?”
His voice cracked.
“There has never been a day in your life when I thought of you as anything else.”
I looked away.
That was almost worse.
Because suddenly the cold, impossible man I had spent years resenting was not simpler.
He was more complicated.
“What does any of this have to do with the fever?”
Daniel answered.
“My uncle Jonathan was working on an infectious-disease research project before he died.”
I looked at him.
“Research?”
“He had identified an unusual bacterial strain in a cluster of pediatric patients.”
My mother whispered, “The same strain?”
Daniel nodded.
“The preliminary lab profile from your culture resembles it.”
My father stood.
“How closely?”
“Enough that I contacted my father.”
“Daniel.”
My skin prickled.
“You told him?”
“I needed his memory.
His old records.”
Daniel looked at me.
“Emily, the organism my uncle studied was not common.
It was associated with contaminated medical supplies distributed to several clinics in New England in the early nineties.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“He believed somebody was covering up the source.”
My father’s face changed.
Daniel noticed.
“So did you,” Daniel said.
My father said nothing.
“Dad?”
He went toward the window.
The city spread beneath us.
“When your mother became pregnant, Jonathan told her he had found evidence that the contaminated supplies had been purchased through a charitable medical distributor.”
The room chilled.
I already knew the answer.
“The Whitmore Foundation.”
My father turned.
“Yes.”
My mouth went dry.
“But you didn’t run it then.”
“My father did.”
Grandfather Whitmore.
The saint in bronze at three hospitals.
The man whose name adorned schools, research wings, and scholarships.
“He knew?”
I asked.
My father’s silence answered.
My mother whispered, “Jonathan believed your grandfather discovered the contamination and buried it to protect the foundation.”
I felt sick again.
“How many people?”
Daniel answered.
“We don’t know.”
“Children?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“My biological father found out.”
“Yes.”
“And then died in a car accident.”
No one spoke.
I opened my eyes.
“Was it an accident?”
Daniel’s jaw tightened.
“My father never believed it was.”
My mother began crying again.
My father walked toward her.
She stepped away.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
Then I understood something else.
“My first illness.”
My father nodded slowly.
“You were six when Hadley found Jonathan’s old research among archived foundation files.”
“He poisoned me to stop you from investigating?”
“We believe he attempted to reproduce the earlier contamination and frame it as accidental exposure.”
Daniel said, “But there’s more.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course there is.”
He held my gaze.
“The compound found in your blood tonight was also described in my uncle’s notes.”
My father’s face drained.
“What?”
Daniel stood.
“He documented a fever-suppressing agent being used in animal trials.”
“Meaning?”
May you like
Daniel’s voice became quiet.
“Meaning whoever made Emily sick this time had access to Jonathan Mercer’s unpublished research.”
