Chapter 3 - Blood Doesn't Lie Twice
At six o'clock the following morning, Tristan was not in his luxury penthouse overlooking Elliott Bay. He was sitting in the back of a black Town Car parked across from a small, two-story bungalow in Queen Anne. The neighborhood was quiet, lined with overgrown maples and wet asphalt.
His private investigator, a former detective named Sam Vance, leaned back in the driver's seat and tossed a slim manila folder into Tristan’s lap.
"She works as the communications coordinator for the Pacific Children’s Hope Foundation," Vance reported, sipping lukewarm coffee from a paper cup. "Salary is modest—sixty-five grand a year. She lives here alone with the kid. No boyfriends. No roommates. She bought the place with a modest inheritance from her grandmother two years ago. By all accounts, she’s quiet, respected, and keeps entirely to herself."
Tristan opened the folder. Inside was a single photograph of Rosalie kneeling on the front lawn, tying the laces of Leo's tiny red sneakers. The boy was laughing, his mouth wide, showing straight baby teeth. The ache in Tristan’s chest deepened until it felt like a cracked rib.
"Did you find the original file from St. Jude Genomics?" Tristan asked, his voice strained from lack of sleep.
Vance sighed heavily. "That’s where things get murky, Tristan. I pulled the archive records from the state registry. The lab that processed the prenatal paternity test back then was St. Jude Analytical in Bellevue. Except... two years ago, that lab abruptly shut down following an audit by the Department of Health. The lead lab technician, a guy named Gregory Vance—no relation to me—liquidated his assets and moved to Boca Raton. The records from that entire quarter were supposedly corrupted in a server fire."
Tristan’s head snapped up. "Corrupted? A certified diagnostic facility lost chain-of-custody data?"
"It happens, sure," the investigator said pragmatically. "Or someone pays a quarter of a million dollars to make a hard drive disappear into a shredder."
A cold dread began to seep into Tristan’s veins. Three years ago, when Rosalie told him she was pregnant, he had been ecstatic. He had been ready to go against his father's wishes, ready to defy the board, ready to marry her in a quiet chapel. But then his father, Arthur Hollis, had suffered a minor stroke, and the family lawyers had taken complete control. They had insisted on an amniocentesis paternity test before any public announcement. And when the results had arrived on legal letterhead, signed and notarized, Arthur Hollis had looked at Tristan with pity and disgust, saying, She played you for a fool, son.
"I need another test," Tristan said, his voice flat. "I need an indisputable, triple-verified test."
"You can't just snatch a kid off the street, boss," Vance warned. "That's kidnapping. And if Rosalie takes that to the press, the Hollis name will be dragged through every tabloid from New York to London."
"I’m not snatching him," Tristan said, setting the folder down. "I'm going to ask her."
He stepped out of the car before Vance could protest. The morning air was sharp and smelled of pine needles and damp earth. Tristan walked up the modest gravel path, each step heavier than the last. He reached the porch, took a deep breath, and knocked twice on the painted yellow door.
A moment later, the lock clicked. Rosalie opened the door wearing an oversized cardigan over jeans, holding a wooden spoon in one hand. When she saw him, her expression turned instantly to stone.
"You have five seconds to walk off my porch before I call the police," she said without raising her voice.
"Rosalie, please," Tristan said, keeping his hands visible, palms open. "Just five minutes. Not as a Hollis. Not with lawyers. Just you and me."
"There is no 'you and me.' There hasn't been for three years."
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"I think the test was faked," he said bluntly.
The wooden spoon dropped from her hand, clattering against the hardwood inside. Rosalie’s face went completely blank, the anger draining away to reveal an ocean of raw, ancient grief.
