Girl Three (19 page)

Your donation of ten fertilized oocytes will be utilized in the pursuit of cures for—

Jessie stopped short.

Ten oocytes.

Ian told her he had aspirated
nineteen
eggs from Sam, fertilized them in vitro, and arranged for the embryos to be given to Geneticell. That left nine of Sam’s eggs unaccounted for. Either the letter was wrong, or Ian had lied. And Jessie could think of plenty of reasons why Ian wouldn’t want her to know that all of Sam’s eggs hadn’t been donated to Geneticell. She’d bet that Sam hadn’t known, either.

Jessie was familiar with the legalities of egg donation. Over the years, she’d written several articles on the subject for
The Oliver Report
and she kept her research current. Sam would’ve been required to sign a consent form to release her eggs from Ian’s practice to Geneticell. To find out if Ian had lied, Jessie needed to see that consent form. And she knew just where to look for it.

She glanced outside and saw the cab still parked on the street. Intent on uncovering the truth, she hurried outside and caught the cabbie’s attention. As she settled back into the seat, she gave him an address near Ian’s practice. She pulled out her cell phone, scrolled through the call log to find Michael’s number, and quickly typed him a text.

I might be a few minutes late…please wait for me.

If things went smoothly, she’d be back just in time.

She got out of the cab on Massachusetts Avenue, almost a block from Ian’s office, and started walking in the prickly-cold fog. Streetlamps cast vaporous light on the sidewalk but deepened the shadows in the darkness beyond. The neighborhood was quiet compared to the flurry of activity she’d seen there earlier today. Behind the mansion and townhouse façades were the professional offices of associations, physicians, and engineering firms. Jessie gazed across the street at the magnificent Indonesian Embassy compound. Next door, red and green flags waved in the wind outside the Embassy of Portugal.

She passed the front of Ian’s practice, noticed the lights on, and hoped her plan would work. When she reached the end of the block, she turned and walked the short distance to Q Street. Here, it was more like an alley than a street, and it trailed behind the buildings that faced Massachusetts Avenue. Her footsteps were the only ones she heard, which was way more comforting than the I’m-being-followed feeling she’d had on her way to the Market Inn.

In the distance, a high streetlight cast a muted glow. She passed several parking spaces, abandoned for the night. Garbage and recycling bins lined up behind the buildings, next to industrial-sized HVAC units. Winter weeds sprouted from cracks in the sidewalk and driveways. For all the old-world allure of the street front, there was as much real-world grit out back.

Ian’s building was a quarter of the way down the block. Jessie approached it from the back, her pulse racing faster with each step. A lone vehicle was parked behind it—an old-model, white cleaning-service van that took up two of the four narrow parking spaces.

Jessie’s keys jangled as she pulled them from her purse. She climbed the steps to the rear entrance and waited.

And waited.

And shivered. More from nerves than the single-digit wind chill.

Through the metal door, she heard muffled conversation in clipped Spanish and the whir of a vacuum cleaner. She was about to give up when the plod of heavy footsteps inside became louder and closer.

Within seconds, a custodian barreled out the door, a bulging trash bag in his hand. Jessie anchored herself in his path, keys in hand, as if she’d been inches from unlocking the door. The man turned his head just in time to see her, stopping short before lumbering over her. His eyes widened.

“Oops.” She held up her hands, keys dangling. “Sorry. Forgot something.” She didn’t know if he understood her and didn’t wait to find out. Stepping around him, she caught the door before it slammed, went inside, and didn’t look back.

It was possible that someone else might be working late on one of the three floors of Ian’s practice, but Jessie couldn’t let that stop her. She’d learned earlier today that the lab and procedure rooms spanned the top floor. Ian’s office and patient exam rooms were on the second, and the lobby, administrative area, and counseling rooms were on the first. She had to locate the chart room and find Sam’s file. The cleaning crew was busy on the first floor, so she decided to start on the second.

She quickly took the stairs instead of the elevator, the smell of Windex and bleach growing stronger as she climbed. Hopefully the cleaning crew had finished on the upper floors, and she’d be left alone while she searched. At the top of the steps, she took in the layout, seeing everything in the half light of an accent lamp and illuminated exit signs.

Six exam rooms surrounded a central nurses’ station, and a narrow hallway stretched beyond. She headed down it and found two doors, both open, rooms dark, then a dead end.

The first door led to the small, windowless chart room. Floor to ceiling, row after row, shelf upon shelf of patient charts. She could only hope they were well filed and that Sam’s records hadn’t been archived. Judging from the amount of old-fashioned paper in the room and the thick chart Ian had handed his receptionist this morning, he hadn’t fully transitioned to electronic medical records. Even so, he might’ve boxed and warehoused older files.

Jessie flipped the overhead light switch, then took off her gloves. Starting with the shelf closest to her, she glanced at the last names on the chart tabs, ticking her way up the alphabet to
C
. She had to get on her knees and into a corner to find
Croft, Samantha C.
wedged in tightly, five folders from the end. With clammy hands, Jessie pulled the file free and fanned through the pages, but she didn’t find the consent form the first time through.

Patience.

The next time, she looked more closely and found the form.

I, Samantha Celia Croft, do hereby mandate that all eggs/embryos produced pursuant to this agreement shall be deemed to be and are the property of Geneticell, who shall have the sole right to determine the disposition of said eggs/embryos.

Jessie scanned all the legalese but found no reference to quantity. She hurriedly flipped through the pages of vitals and physician notes from each of Sam’s visits. On the final page, she found the entry from the day of Sam’s egg retrieval. The notes had been scrawled, but she could easily decipher the important part.

Aspirated oocytes – 19.

She skimmed the rest of the notes until she reached the final entry.

Oocytes/embryos donated (Geneticell) – 10.

Ref. chart 03.

Jessie’s heart surged. Sam had donated ten eggs to Geneticell, but what had happened to the other nine? The answer might be in Sam’s chart, but she didn’t have time to look for it now. She opened her purse and shoved the chart inside.

Now she had to find chart 03.

She followed the trail of charts to the end of the alphabet, finding no numbers interspersed, and no special sections coming before or after. Feeling conspicuous, she turned off the light and stepped into the hall.

The cleaning crew was still busy downstairs and she wondered how long they’d stay. She’d seen an alarm panel on the wall next to the back door when she came in. If the cleaners left before her, they’d expect her to set it when she left. She’d have to leave the practice unarmed for the night. If something happened, blame would fall on the cleaning manager, then on her. The man with the trash bag had gotten a good look at her under the back porch light.

Common sense told her to leave, but she’d come this far. She couldn’t leave without finding chart 03. Since she hadn’t found it in the chart room, she guessed it was highly confidential, and Ian likely kept it close by. She crept into his office. Hazy light from the streetlamp out front seeped through two floor-to-ceiling windows and a set of French doors that led to the balcony. His uncluttered glass desktop gleamed. Decorative pillows accented a modern couch, and built-in shelving lined one wall with space in the corner for several four-drawer file cabinets.

Check the file cabinets, then leave.

Jessie took her key ring from her coat pocket and used her penlight to see. There were no labels on the drawers, and one master lock for each cabinet. She pulled the end of her shirtsleeve over her fingers and tugged at the handle of the first drawer.

It slid open, and she shined the penlight over the file names.

No numbers.

She checked all the drawers in the first and second cabinets. No locks, but no luck. When she pulled on the top drawer of the third cabinet, it didn’t budge, nor did the others below it.

The door downstairs opened and closed several times, and she no longer heard the vacuum cleaner. Her time was running out. The cleaning crew would leave soon, but this could be her only chance to learn the truth about Sam’s eggs.

Jessie moved stealthily around the office, looking for the keys to the file cabinet, searching the drawers of a low-profile credenza and eyeballing Ian’s desk for quirky containers.

Nothing.

She refused to consider the possibility that Ian kept the keys on his keychain, and she’d never get the drawers unlocked.

Another slam of the door downstairs.

Quickly, she resorted to the shelves. She stood on tiptoes and swiped her hand across the high shelf above the file cabinets, desperate for a jingle. Her fingers caught the edge of a tall crystal vase and it teetered. She tried to steady it, but it pitched forward. Adrenaline shot through her as she covered her head with her hands. The heavy glass whisked by within inches and hit the floor with a spectacular crash. Shards of glass skittered across the hardwood and sprayed onto the designer rug.

She clenched her teeth and winced. Surely the cleaning crew would rush upstairs to see what had broken. Fragments of conversation carried up the stairwell, and her heart beat twice for every second that ticked away. Then a vacuum cleaner started. No one came upstairs.

Jessie exhaled. Her only choice now was to leave. There was no way she could clean up all of the glass, and no way she could hide what she’d done.

With shaky legs, she stepped around the mess, managing to avoid the shards until something clinked beneath her heel. Metal, not glass. She moved her foot and found a tiny set of keys glinting in the light.

Her stomach leapt into her throat. The keys must’ve been in the vase.

Jessie picked them up, raced to the file cabinet, and tried one key, then the next. Neither turned the lock.

These have to be the keys.

The last one was her final chance.

She steadied her hand and tried the third key. The top drawer creaked as if it wasn’t opened often. Her light played over the file tabs. Numbered charts, 01 through 68. She snatched up 03 and whipped it open. Sam smiled back at her from a beautiful, professional headshot. The file trembled in Jessie’s hand as she rushed to page through it.

She snapped to attention at the sound of a man talking downstairs, speaking perfect English.

Ian
.

His voice grew louder, his feet thudding like her heart as he climbed the steps to the second floor. Jessie shoved the file drawer closed, locked the cabinet, and tossed the keys back onto the rug. She hurried into the hallway, to the dark chart room. Ducking between two rows of shelves, she pressed her body against the stiff cardboard edges of the files, clutching chart 03 to her chest and pinching her eyes closed—as if Ian wouldn’t see her if she couldn’t see him.

His footsteps came closer. “So you’ll be here soon?”

The floor vibrated as he strode down the hallway.

“Hurry, honey,” he said.

So Helena was on her way. Jessie couldn’t imagine how she would sneak out now. Even if she could get out undetected, she was going to be more than a little late meeting Michael. But he was the least of her worries right now.

She couldn’t bear to keep her eyes closed, and opened them as Ian approached, darkening the doorway when he passed. A moment later, light from his office seeped into the chart room, along with the sound of glass crunching beneath shoes.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Jessie cringed. She pictured the minefield of broken glass glistening in the sudden light and dreaded Ian’s reaction. If he decided to inspect the place, he’d find her right away.

Shelves of charts towered around her, closing in.

“What the hell?” Ian said. “Those damn maids.” He whisked down the hallway, past the chart room, and down the stairs.

Jessie’s hopes of escaping dwindled with each of his angry steps.

“Manuel,” he called sharply.

Silence.

She had never been more relieved to hear nothing. Now she hoped that the custodian who had seen her was long gone with his crew. The door downstairs opened and slammed closed. Her stomach clenched. The cleaning crew might still be outside—what if Ian caught them before they drove away?

She had to get out. From what she could tell, there were three ways to do that from the second floor—the fire escape, the elevator, or the stairs. She had no idea where the fire escape was, and no time to find it. The elevator would make noise and was right next to the stairs. So the stairs were her best option—and they were at the opposite end of the building. She crept into the hall, the nurses’ station up ahead, the steps beyond.

The downstairs door opened again, then clanged shut. Muffled conversation between Ian and Helena rose to the second floor like heat.

More footsteps on the stairs, coming up.

Jessie turned around and ducked back into the chart room.

“And they were gone before I could drag them upstairs and rub their illegal noses in the broken glass,” Ian said.

Judging by his voice, Jessie guessed he was near the nurses’ station at the end of the hallway—between her and the stairs.

“Why didn’t they clean up the mess when it happened?” Helena asked. But the voice didn’t sound like Helena’s.