Chapter 3 - The Clinic In Lincoln Park
At ten o'clock the following morning, instead of sleeping after my pharmacology exam, I stood across from a discreet brick building in Lincoln Park.
The brass plaque near the front steps read Dr. Kenneth Pike, MD – Private Obstetrics & Maternal Care.
The clinic was known among wealthy suburbanites who paid cash for discretion, zero waiting times, and total confidentiality.
I wore my student nursing scrubs under a heavy thrifted trench coat, pinning my official medical training badge prominently to my chest.
In my leather bag sat my digital audio recorder, my stethoscope, and a clipboard I had borrowed from the university teaching hospital. As a fourth-year student, I understood clinical record protocols, charting systems, and exactly where private doctors kept their paper trail.
I walked through the frosted glass entrance, greeting the middle-aged receptionist with an authoritative, hurried smile.
"Hi there! Clinical liaison from Northwestern Memorial High-Risk Maternal Unit," I said, holding up my credential lanyard with practiced efficiency.
"Dr. Hayes sent me to retrieve the archival scan records for Vivian Shaw. Her transfer packet is missing the twelve-week anatomical survey."
The receptionist adjusted her spectacles, typing rapidly on her terminal while chewing on the end of a pen.
"That's strange. Miss Shaw’s file is marked for private courier delivery only under Mr. Cross’s executive account."
"Exactly why Dr. Hayes is irritated," I sighed, leaning against the desk and lowering my voice conspiratorially.
"The bride’s blood markers showed an atypical Rh-factor conflict on her last panel, and if we don't cross-match the prenatal antibody serum before Friday's ceremony, the whole obstetrics team is liable. You know how litigious the Cross family is."
The mention of Damian Cross’s name did exactly what it always did in Chicago—it terrified her into immediate compliance.
The woman went pale, frantically unlocking the heavy filing cabinet behind her workstation and pulling out a thick, navy-blue folder. "Take it directly to the lab. Dr. Pike is in surgery until two, and he would murder me if Mr. Cross filed an administrative complaint."
"You just saved both of our careers," I smiled, taking the file and slipping it into my leather portfolio.
I walked out of the clinic into the biting wind, ducking into an alleyway three blocks away to open the heavy folder.
My nursing training took over as I flipped through the lab results and scan printouts with furious speed.
The ultrasound pictures stapled to the interior divider were identical to the standard teaching scans used in the university medical library.
The serial numbers at the top right corner did not match the clinic's ultrasound equipment; they were registered to an imaging center in San Diego that had closed down in 2021.
Even worse, the blood panels showed no elevated human chorionic gonadotropin—the essential hormone present in every biological pregnancy. Vivian Shaw had never been pregnant a single day in her life.
Then, tucked behind the forged billing receipts, I found a handwritten carbon voucher for a private wire transfer of eighty thousand dollars from an offshore LLC.
The memo line on the check was written in Dr. Pike’s scrawling handwriting: Retainer for post-nuptial certificate of stillbirth.
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My stomach churned with blinding, violent nausea as the horror of the plan crystallized in my mind.
Vivian wasn't just planning to fake an accident for Damian; she was planning to claim the baby died during the honeymoon tragedy so nobody would ever ask to see a child.
