Chapter 5 - THE PATERNITY WAR
Police reached my house in four minutes.
The car was gone.
Whoever had taken the picture had known exactly where to park beyond the neighbor’s hedge where my doorbell camera could not see.
That frightened Detective Holloway.
Which frightened me more.
For the next week, I stayed with my mother.
Nathan offered to stay somewhere else so I could return home.
I refused.
Not because I wanted him punished.
Because the house no longer felt like mine.
Amber had entered it.
Copied documents.
Taken photographs.
Stolen my driver’s license.
Stolen my signature.
Possibly watched my routines.
The walls felt contaminated.
Nathan continued calling.
Now he wanted updates about the pregnancy.
I gave him one answer.
“Through Maya.”
He hated it.
Good.
Boundaries were not supposed to feel convenient to the person who made them necessary.
The divorce case moved quickly after the financial fraud emerged.
Nathan hired an attorney named Douglas Finch.
Expensive.
Polished.
He filed an emergency motion claiming that because Nathan was likely the father of the twins, he deserved access to prenatal medical information.
Maya dropped the paperwork on her desk.
“He has a right to establish paternity eventually.”
“Eventually?”
“Depends on jurisdiction, timing, and what the judge orders.”
“I don’t want him at appointments.”
“He cannot force himself into your examination room.”
“Good.”
“But expect him to ask for confirmation.”
“The ultrasound already confirms the timeline.”
“Timeline is evidence.”
Maya leaned back.
“DNA is certainty.”
I stared.
“You think I should do a prenatal paternity test.”
“I think you should understand your options.”
My hand moved toward my stomach.
“Is it dangerous?”
“There are noninvasive tests using your blood and his DNA sample.”
“So no needles near the babies.”
“No.”
I exhaled.
“Then do it.”
Maya watched me.
“You don’t have to prove yourself to him.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why?”
“Because I am tired of Nathan’s doubt being allowed to occupy space in my life.”
I looked directly at her.
“I want a piece of paper.”
“Not for him.”
“For me.”
She nodded.
“Then we’ll arrange it.”
Nathan agreed immediately.
Too immediately.
Part of me resented that.
Two weeks earlier, he had been certain I cheated.
Now he wanted science to hand him fatherhood.
We went to separate collection appointments.
I never saw him.
Blood from me.
Cheek swab from him.
Then we waited.
Waiting was something pregnancy already contained too much of.
Waiting for appointments.
Waiting for movement.
Waiting for test results.
Now I waited for a piece of paper to confirm something I already knew.
Meanwhile, the investigation into Amber widened.
Police traced some of the money.
Thirty-two thousand went to a rental deposit on a luxury condo in Miami under a false name.
Fifteen thousand bought cryptocurrency.
Twenty thousand went through Pierce Consulting to an offshore payment service.
The rest disappeared into transfers investigators were still tracing.
Then Nathan discovered another loss.
His personal retirement account had been borrowed against.
Forty thousand dollars.
He had apparently “authorized” it online.
He had not.
Amber had stolen from him too.
I expected satisfaction.
Instead, I felt tired.
Nathan called Maya asking if he could speak to me once.
Maya asked my permission.
I said yes.
Phone only.
She stayed on the line.
Nathan’s voice sounded quieter than usual.
“I owe you an apology.”
“You owe me several.”
“I know.”
He paused.
“I keep finding things.”
“About Amber?”
“Yes.”
“She opened credit cards in my name.”
“How many?”
“Three.”
“Jesus.”
“I deserved some of this.”
“No.”
That surprised him.
“What?”
I stared out my mother’s kitchen window.
“You deserved consequences for cheating.”
“For lying.”
“For stealing our money.”
“For humiliating me.”
“You did not deserve identity theft.”
Silence.
Then Nathan whispered—
“Thank you.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t turn basic fairness into forgiveness.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
He breathed out.
“I spoke to everyone.”
I frowned.
“Everyone who?”
“People I told you cheated.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“And?”
“I told them I was wrong.”
“All of them?”
“I made a list.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
Nathan loved lists.
He always had.
“I posted publicly too.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
I opened social media while he was speaking.
There it was.
A plain white background.
Long text.
Nathan had written:
I accused my wife of infidelity based on assumptions I did not verify. Those accusations were false. I repeated them to friends, family, and colleagues. Rachel did not betray me. I betrayed her trust, and I am responsible for the harm caused by my words.
No mention of Amber.
No vasectomy excuse.
No attempt to make himself the victim.
It was the first genuinely decent thing he had done in weeks.
“I saw it.”
“I should have done it sooner.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
He hesitated.
“Rachel?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to prove the babies were mine.”
My eyes burned unexpectedly.
“You didn’t make me.”
“I know.”
“I chose the test.”
“I know.”
I swallowed.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I want the house to be yours.”
I stared.
“What?”
“In the divorce.”
“That isn’t your decision alone.”
“I know.”
“I told Doug.”
“Your attorney?”
“Yes.”
“I want my share applied against what I took from the accounts.”
The anger inside me shifted.
Not disappeared.
Shifted.
Nathan continued.
“And if there’s remaining equity, I want you and the babies to have it.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why?”
“Because I wanted you to sign it away when I thought you had betrayed me.”
A pause.
“And now I understand what kind of man that made me.”
I could not answer immediately.
Finally I said—
“That doesn’t undo it.”
“I know.”
For once, he understood the sentence without fighting it.
Three days later, the paternity result arrived.
Maya called me into her office.
The envelope sat on her desk.
She did not open it.
“This is yours.”
My hands trembled.
Ridiculous.
I knew.
The dates knew.
My body knew.
But humiliation does strange things to confidence.
When someone you love insists you are a liar long enough, part of you begins wanting evidence that you are not.
I opened the envelope.
The result was simple.
Nathan Brooks could not be excluded as the biological father.
Probability of paternity:
99.99%.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Maya said nothing.
I laughed.
Then I cried.
Not because Nathan was the father.
Because Rachel was not a liar.
I knew that.
But seeing it in ink felt like reclaiming something.
Maya handed me a tissue.
“What do you want to do?”
I wiped my face.
“Send it to his lawyer.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“No dramatic delivery?”
“I already had my dramatic ultrasound.”
She smiled.
“Fair.”
Nathan received the result at 2:17 p.m.
He called at 2:19.
I did not answer.
He texted instead.
I’m sorry.
Then:
I know those words aren’t enough.
Then:
I will spend the rest of my life trying to deserve whatever role you allow me to have in theirs.
I stared at the message.
Whatever role I allowed.
That was not entirely how parenthood worked legally.
But I understood what he meant.
He was no longer assuming.
That mattered.
Then another message arrived.
Not Nathan.
Detective Holloway.
WE FOUND AMBER. CALL ME.
I called immediately.
“Where?”
“Miami.”
My heart jumped.
“You arrested her?”
“No.”
“What?”
“She was located by hotel security.”
“Why?”
Holloway paused.
“Because someone assaulted her.”
I stopped.
“Is she alive?”
“Yes.”
“She’s in the hospital.”
“Who attacked her?”
“We don’t know.”
“Was the money recovered?”
“Some.”
I closed my eyes.
“How much?”
“Rachel…”
His voice changed.
“There’s another issue.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“Amber says Nathan attacked her.”
My body went cold.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“He’s here.”
“In the city.”
“When did the assault happen?”
“Last night.”
“Then check Nathan’s location.”
“We are.”
“What does Amber say?”
“That Nathan followed her to Miami.”
“That he demanded the money.”
“That he hit her.”
I stared at the paternity result on Maya’s desk.
“Do you believe her?”
“That’s not how this works.”
I hated that answer.
But again—
he was right.
Then Maya’s assistant entered.
“Rachel.”
“What?”
“You need to see this.”
She turned a laptop toward us.
A news website.
Headline:
LOCAL EXECUTIVE ACCUSED IN MIAMI ATTACK ON MISTRESS AFTER PATERNITY SCANDAL.
Nathan’s photograph.
Amber’s photograph.
My name.
My pregnancy.
Everything.
Below it was a security-camera image.
A man entering Amber’s hotel corridor.
Same height as Nathan.
Same build.
Baseball cap.
Dark jacket.
His face partially turned away.
But enough visible.
Enough to look like him.
I stared.
Maya whispered—
“Rachel?”
“That jacket.”
“What?”
“I bought Nathan that jacket.”
The room went silent.
Then my phone rang.
Nathan.
This time, I answered.
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Can you prove it?”
Silence.
Then—
“What happened?”
I told him.
Nathan sounded genuinely confused.
Then frightened.
“Rachel, I swear to God, I was home.”
“Were you alone?”
A pause.
My stomach dropped.
“Nathan.”
“I was alone.”
“No cameras?”
“Doorbell camera.”
“Does it show you?”
“Maybe leaving work.”
“Anything overnight?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else have your jacket?”
Another pause.
Then he whispered—
“Amber.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“She took one from the house.”
“When?”
“I didn’t know until after she left.”
“Why didn’t you tell police?”
“I thought it was just a jacket.”
Nothing was just anything anymore.
Nathan continued—
“Rachel.”
“What?”
“Amber used to joke that if she dressed like me from behind, you wouldn’t know the difference.”
My skin went cold.
A terrible possibility formed.
“That person in Miami…”
“May not have been me.”
Then Maya leaned toward the screen.
“Rachel.”
She pointed.
The person in the security still was wearing Nathan’s jacket.
Nathan’s shoes.
Nathan’s baseball cap.
But the left hand was visible.
On the ring finger—
a black tattoo.
A tiny crescent moon.
I knew exactly one person with that tattoo.
May you like
Danielle Pierce.
Amber’s sister.
