Chapter 7 - The Children He Planned to Take
Fear transformed Lauren.
For seven years, I had remembered her as the woman in my robe.
Now I saw a mother checking locks twice.
Calling schools.
Keeping her children within sight.
The investigators told us not to panic.
Precautions were put in place.
Mark's access to school pickup was revoked.
Neighbors received his photograph.
Security at my gate was upgraded.
Then we waited.
Waiting is its own kind of violence.
Three days passed.
Nothing.
On the fourth morning, a package appeared outside my gate.
No delivery truck had entered.
Inside was one object.
My blue robe.
I hadn't seen it since the day I left Mark.
Lauren stared at it.
“I threw that away years ago.”
Apparently she hadn't.
Or Mark had retrieved it.
There was no note.
He didn't need one.
The message was obvious.
He knew where we were.
Police increased patrols.
But Rebecca focused on something else.
“Why the robe?”
“To scare us.”
“Yes. But why that object?”
Because Mark remembered.
He remembered exactly which symbol carried the most pain.
That was his talent.
By evening, investigators located footage from a nearby gas station.
A man matching Mark's appearance had been there the previous night.
He was close.
Lauren wanted to leave.
“No,” I said.
“What if he comes here?”
“That's why leaving randomly is dangerous.”
She paced.
“I brought this to you.”
“Yes.”
“He's threatening you because of me.”
“No. He's threatening all of us because he's losing control.”
That distinction mattered.
Mark had spent years keeping us separated.
Me against Lauren.
Lauren dependent on him.
Dad trapped by guilt.
Mom trapped by denial.
Now we were all in one place.
And the blue file sat beyond his reach.
Two nights later, the gate alarm sounded at 2:13 a.m.
I woke instantly.
Security cameras showed movement near the service entrance.
Police were already on alert.
Within minutes, lights flashed beyond the trees.
Someone ran.
Officers searched the property.
They didn't find Mark.
They found another burner phone.
There was one recorded message.
For me.
“Emily, you always had to make everything harder.”
His voice.
After seven years.
My hands shook.
The message continued.
“You could have walked away. You did walk away. But now you're involving yourself in things that aren't yours.”
I almost laughed.
The money was mine.
The records were mine.
The destroyed marriage had been mine.
But Mark still believed ownership belonged to whoever controlled the story.
Then he said:
“Ask Lauren who Noah's biological father really is.”
The recording ended.
Nobody spoke.
I turned toward Lauren.
Her face had gone white.
“What's he talking about?”
“I don't know.”
“Lauren.”
“I don't.”
For once, I believed her.
Rebecca requested the clinic records.
Two days later, we received an answer.
The clinic still had archived documentation.
The sample used during Lauren's fertility procedure was labeled with Mark's identifying information.
But there had been an irregularity.
A discrepancy in the chain-of-custody form.
It could mean nothing.
Or it could mean everything.
Lauren decided to order a DNA test.
Not because Mark demanded it.
Because Noah deserved the truth eventually.
The results would take several days.
Meanwhile, investigators traced the burner phone.
Mark had made a mistake.
He had activated it near an old construction property outside Charlotte.
Police searched the site.
They found evidence he'd been sleeping there.
Food.
Clothing.
Cash.
And a second set of documents.
One page contained a list of names.
Mine was first.
Lauren's second.
Dad's third.
Beside each name was an amount.
Beside mine:
$184,600 + interest.
Beside Lauren:
$311,000.
Beside Dad:
CONTROL.
At the bottom Mark had written:
Everybody pays eventually.
But there was another name.
One none of us recognized.
David Mercer — $500,000.
May you like
And beside it were two words:
NOAH'S FATHER.
