When she did not finish her sentence, Amy swung her gaze to Giselle. “What?”
She hesitated a long moment. “Nothing.”
“Does this have to do with the bruises on her neck?”
Giselle looked out at the lake.
“Do you know how she really got those marks?”
“I only know what Christine told me when I asked.”
“About the falling bowl? Did you believe her?”
Giselle continued to stare out at the water. “Christine doesn’t cook. She has a cook. So that, plus some other things…no, I do not believe it.”
“Neither do I. Do other accidents like that happen often?”
Giselle nodded.
“Have you reported it?”
“Reported what? I have not seen anything. Just bruises. I do not know how it works. I googled it. I read that American police won’t do anything unless they have proof. Or a witness. Or if there are more serious injuries, like broken bones. And Melissa will not talk about it. I asked.”
“Who’s doing it?”
“Christine can be a bitch at times. Hard to work for. Last few months it’s been worse. She is under strain. I think you call it ‘stressed out.’ If I put two and two together, I am sure it is from that business deal.”
Amy knew that “stressed out” and “difficult to deal with” were generic traits. Most people could be described as such in various settings. They certainly were not behavioral descriptors that supported accusations of child abuse.
“Not an excuse for hurting a child,” Amy said, “physically or emotionally. You see anything, if Melissa tells you anything, let me know.”
“What would you do?”
Good question. “I have a…friend who’ll know how to handle it.” Loren’s work with the FBI dealt with crimes against children but she did not think that included local cases of abuse. That said, Loren probably had contacts or friends at the Oakland Police Department who would know what to do about it or who to speak with. “Meantime, see if you can get Melissa to talk about it.”
Giselle chewed on the side of her bottom lip. “If Christine finds out, she will fire me.”
Amy understood that Giselle was perhaps more afraid than most people about losing her job. She might have to return to Germany if her work permit was terminated. Amy was not an expert on visas but she could probably dig around for some information—if it became an issue.
Amy gave her a weak smile. “Then don’t let her find out.”
13
After dinner, Amy sat at her kitchen table, staring at the blank laptop screen.
She had been thinking about everything Giselle told her the past few days. She pressed the power button and her desktop instantly appeared. Her fingers paused over the keys, then she opened her browser and searched for information on the clinic fire. She copied and pasted salient facts into a Word document.
Next came the notes she had taken from her conversations with the receptionist at Boston Fertility and the Fire Investigation Unit supervisor.
Amy sat back and looked at what she had assembled. She highlighted a few points with her stylus, then returned to Google.
She typed in Brandon Ellis MD and pulled up a slew of information on his professional career as well as his company, LifeScreen Genetics. An IPO was due to launch in fewer than two weeks. There was a downloadable PDF on its website, which featured a large, full color close-up of Melissa’s innocent face.
After reading through the promo piece, she determined that the technology behind LifeScreen—intriguing and filled with enormous promise—faced a tangle of ethical problems akin to unraveling a ball of knotted yarn. That was of course not addressed in the pamphlet, but she knew that it would be questioned by people of religion and science alike. Like drones, autonomous cars, internet-connected refrigerators and insulin pumps, and AI-infused robotics, technology was marching us into the future, whether or not the public was ready for it—politically, emotionally, or morally.
The cost/benefit analysis laid out in the PDF was strongly positive toward wide-scale implementation of the technology. Because of that, she figured that any obstacles would be favorably addressed by the courts, assuming it was challenged.
She scrolled down and saw that Brandon Ellis went to medical school at Tufts University—the same college John Hutchinson, her fertility doctor, graduated from. She grew up not far from the school and discussed the area with Hutchinson during their initial IVF consultation.
Amy leaned back in her chair.
She googled John Hutchinson MD Brandon Ellis MD Christine Ellis MD. She found a photo taken at a medical symposium fifteen years ago of the two men with their arms around each other’s shoulders, mugging for the camera. Another one featured Christine, John Hutchinson, and his wife Virginia.
A few links later, she discovered the two men were in the same fraternity at Boston University.
Amy reclined in her seat again and stared straight ahead, seeing nothing but her mind swirling with a web of thoughts as she fought to reject the revelations forming in her mind. She began typing:
- The fire was real. But it was arson. A ruse to create the lie that her and Dan’s embryos were destroyed?
- Her embryos were not really burned up in the fire.
- Her physician was buddies with Brandon Ellis.
- Brandon Ellis is Melissa’s father.
- Melissa looks nothing like her mother.
- Melissa is really her daughter. Hers and Dan’s.
She cupped her mouth. Rather than anger, she felt sheer elation that—if true—she had been spending time with her own little girl.
The last vestige of her and Dan.
Wait.
This is what I want to believe.
But is it the truth?
She needed proof. Not legal proof, at least not now. But what would she do if Melissa turned out to be her child?
14
Amy hated doing this, but she had to know.
She laughed at Melissa’s blonde locks and tousled them playfully. “Oh my goodness, girl. Your hair’s all tangled again.”
Giselle rummaged around the lunch basket. “It’s the wind. I usually fix it when we get home.”
“No need to wait.” Amy reached into her purse and pulled out a small brush—which she had purchased this morning at Walgreens on the way to work.
“Here.” Amy dragged the bristles through Melissa’s jumble.
“Ow.”
“Sorry. The wind did a good job.” She finished combing it out and gave the bristles a quick glance. Perfect. It looked like she had gotten several strands by the roots—more than adequate samples for DNA testing.
Amy pulled out a doll she had as a child and handed it to Melissa. “You like Barbie?”
“Mommy won’t let me have one.”
She looked at Giselle. “Body image?”
Giselle hesitated. “I’m not sure what her reason is.”
Amy thought Giselle knew what the problem was but would not say. If it was not the controversy surrounding body type perception and young girls, it could be something simpler, as in basic cruelty. Although merely a supposition, given Amy’s suspicions regarding physical abuse, it made sense that there could be an emotional component as well.
When she returned to the bakery, Amy carefully extracted several hair strands, prepared the package, and asked Ellen if she could take fifteen minutes to run something down the block to FedEx.
She struggled to concentrate afterward, trying to determine when the results might hit her mailbox.
After slipping a batch of walnut cookies into the oven, Amy texted Loren and asked if she could join her and Zach for dinner tonight. Loren replied immediately:
seriously sis? youve got a standing invitation
If nothing else, it would help occupy
her thoughts for a few hours.
The coming days would be a sign of how effective her antianxiety meds were. She would have to take it an hour at a time.
As she kneaded another batch of dough, she wondered what she wanted the DNA report to show. Was it better for it to be a match, that Melissa was really her daughter? Or would it be preferable, in the long run, to finally put that part of her life behind her—if that were even possible—and turn the page, get on with living—something she had not truly done since that fateful evening?
Amy now knew that what Zach and Loren had been telling her for years was true: she was sleepwalking through her days, weeks, months.
Years.
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, she walked into her apartment and put her keys down on the dresser. Staring at her was an eight-by-ten photo of better days: Dan and Amy, Lindy, Loren, Zach, and Coco. Taken in a park in Boston during one of Loren’s and Zach’s visits, they were all dressed in white shirts and jeans.
She remembered that day as if it were a month ago. Lindy came down with the flu that evening and Amy and Dan followed the next day.
That was a week before the accident.
Amy stood there looking at Lindy. She sure did look like Melissa. They definitely could be sisters—physically and genetically.
Amy pulled up the photos of Melissa on her iPhone and studied them. Watched the video.
She had to be her daughter. Had to be. And the DNA would confirm it.
Tears rolled down her cheeks—tears of joy. She sniffled as the video ended. Reality began creeping in, her euphoria evaporating like an eraser wiping away markings from a whiteboard.
Amy stood up from the table and began pacing her apartment. What if the lab returned with a positive result? Was there a legal basis for her to wrest Melissa from the Ellises?
How would that play with Melissa? Christine and Brandon were her mother and father.
But they’re not.
Yes they are.
Amy continued pacing. Melissa doesn’t know me, not really. What damage would it do to her if she were forced to leave her family, the only family she’s ever known?
But the abuse. She trusted that Giselle was telling the truth—she had no reason to lie. Amy’s trial lawyer skills, though eroded, were still worth something. And the years spent learning how to read a jury told her that the young woman was being honest with her.
While no one would dispute that getting a child out of an abusive situation would be in the girl’s best interests, Amy could not prove it. Without conclusive evidence, what court would give her custody even if it were to Melissa’s benefit?
What about the fact that Amy had her offspring stolen from her—shrouded by a deliberately plotted scheme to make her think that her embryos had been destroyed? That was conspiracy to commit kidnapping. And kidnapping was a federal crime. Right in Loren’s wheelhouse. But was it kidnapping? Did embryos count as a life, or was it considered simple theft of personal property? Probably the latter.
From what she recalled, her fertility contract referred to the frozen embryos as her and Dan’s property and their rights were forfeited only if they no longer desired to use them to initiate a pregnancy—because the whole idea behind their involvement in the fertility program was to return the embryos to her and Dan via an IVF procedure.
She could not recall, however, her rights—and their responsibilities—relative to storing unimplanted embryos. She did not think she still had a copy of the agreement, but she was confident the terms absolved Boston Fertility of any liability should the embryos become lost or damaged. That was how lawyers worked—the contract always favored the organization that wrote it.
But if the embryos were lost or damaged during the commission of a crime…
Again, though, could she prove a crime had been committed?
Amy stopped and leaned on the back of her wood kitchen chair. Dammit. There had to be a way of hurting these people, a way of proving their egregious behavior, a way of getting Melissa released to her custody.
She kicked the chair. More than anyone else, as an attorney she knew there did not have to be a way of obtaining justice. The law could be like that…more than she wanted to admit. Sometimes things were inherently unfair and people got away with crimes.
Amy pushed the chair under the table and started pacing again, mentally reviewing what she knew: Ellis and Hutchinson were well acquainted with each other. More than that, they were longtime friends, fraternity buddies, and classmates. Colleagues. No question about that.
And no crime in that.
Three significant questions gnawed at her as she walked her apartment: What now? Why her? Why her embryos?
The lieutenant had already told her they were not able to prove the fire was deliberately set, which is why the insurance payout was made. If there was any way of denying the claim, a carrier would have found it and refused to release the funds.
Amy divorced herself of emotion and tried to view the case impartially. And she saw the stark reality: her case against the Ellises was circumstantial at best as it currently stood, with little chance of succeeding. She could hope to influence the jury by emphasizing the emotional impact of her loss, but such cases needed a solid foundation or they risked being overturned on appeal.
That had not stopped her before. It just meant she had to think outside the box.
She could hire a private investigator to dig around, unearth compromising information on Ellis or Hutchinson and attempt to turn one against the other. If either talked in exchange for a light prison sentence, or none at all, the odds of an almost sure defeat would drop significantly. Prosecutors searched for such levers to pull all the time, especially in big cases. It was a tried and true tool of the trade.
Or Amy could find a news outlet and tell them about Ellis and Hutchinson. Maybe an employee who was on the inside would see the report and come forward. That could complicate things for the IPO. She was not a securities lawyer, but her efforts would be about public opinion, not the law. If the media would be willing to run her story without proof. They used to fact check things from at least two sources before going live with an article, but these days the tenets of good journalism were not practiced by any but the more reputable outlets.
If she could find one willing to broadcast, the Ellises would do whatever they could to shut her up. But would they hand over custody of their daughter, the girl on their company’s glossy brochure? No, people like that would offer money. Pay her off. It would be a tidy sum, but Amy was not after money. She wanted what was hers. Her child.
Amy again traced the stretch marks on her abdomen. Her eyelid began to twitch.
And she returned to the original question: what now?
She could go to Loren, but Amy already knew what she would say: there was nothing she could do without proof. And it was not like she could open an investigation because she wanted to. She needed approval from her superior. And when Loren disclosed that the reported victim was her sister-in-law, how would that play out? It would undoubtedly work against her. Even if her boss gave the go-ahead, he or she would assign it to another agent. She knew the Bureau was steeped in process and procedure and there was no way they would allow an agent to work on a case involving a family member.
Amy yawned long and wide. She trudged into her bedroom and collapsed onto her bed. There was time before the IPO to try to find the leverage points she needed…maybe even hire a private investigator and send him in search of information—dirt—that could threaten to derail the IPO. Or she could contact CNBC, Yahoo Finance, Bloomberg, and the Wall Street Journal and see if any of them bit. Then there was social media pressure: some sort of Facebook campaign to spread the story and gain national attention.
But she knew her case would be that much stronger if she waited until the DNA test results came back. That would prove the core of her allegations. Combined with the sus
picious fire and the relationship of the two physicians, it could be enough. Should be enough.
But if the IPO happened before she received the genetic report, she would lose much of her leverage.
As she reasoned it through, she drifted off to sleep.
15
Amy woke with a start. She had slept through the night in her clothes, but fortunately her alarm was set for the same time every weekday morning.
She swung her legs off the bed and shuffled into the bathroom. She showered, dressed, and ate a protein bar while sitting at her laptop. She had ten minutes to make a list of private investigators. Although she had decided to wait for the DNA test results, there was nothing wrong with gathering information. When the time was right, she would be ready to pull the trigger.
During her break she would make some calls and see what kind of questions they asked. The easier approach would be to spend her lunch hour conducting the search, but that meant missing her time with Melissa. As it stood, she had no way of seeing her if not at the park.
She desperately wanted to continue building their relationship. Somehow, even if only peripherally, Amy needed to be a part of Melissa’s life. But she had to tread carefully. If Amy asked Giselle to give her their home address or set up specific times to meet aside from their park outings, it would seem odd.
Maybe in a week or two the familiarity, and their relationship, would develop further and getting together at a restaurant, a blues club, a bar, would be a natural progression. Although it would build trust, Melissa would accompany Giselle to none of these. However, a BART ride into San Francisco to catch a show like The Lion King or Beauty and the Beast—something age-appropriate for Melissa—could then seem normal. Slow steps were best.
The sky was overcast but it was warmer than usual for this time of year. Amy strode across the lawn toward the blanket where Giselle was seated, watching Melissa feed the geese.
“Your timing is impeccable,” Giselle said.
The Lost Girl (A Mickey Keller Thriller Book 1) Page 7