Chapter 3 - Blood Doesn't Lie
The executive conference room on the fourth floor smelled of fresh mahogany and leather, a universe away from the stink of hydraulic oil and scorched steel thirty feet below.
Claire sat at the edge of an Italian leather chair, clutching a cardboard cup of water that a terrified administrative assistant had offered her three times. She still wore her greasy blue uniform shirt, the torn sleeve pinned together with a safety pin Nathan had found in his desk.
Dr. Morrison, a silver-haired physician who had served the Weller family for thirty years, set a sterile plastic kit on the table. He glanced between Nathan, who was pacing like a caged panther near the floor-to-ceiling windows, and Claire, who was staring down at her worn steel-toed work boots.
""A simple buccal swab inside the cheek,"" Dr. Morrison explained gently. ""I will take one from you, Miss Ives, and one from Nathan. I will run the primary markers here using our portable rapid-sequencing lab, and send the full twenty-four locus panel to our private facility in the city for secondary confirmation.""
""How long?"" Nathan demanded, spinning around from the window.
""The rapid test will give us a ninety-nine point eight percent preliminary probability within two hours,"" Dr. Morrison said. ""The legal certification will take twelve.""
""Do it,"" Nathan ordered.
Claire looked up. ""Wait. If I do this... will you pay for my grandmother's medication today?""
Nathan stopped in his tracks, staring at her as if she had driven a spike through his chest. ""What did you say?""
""My grandmother Martha,"" Claire said quietly, her voice tightening with the exhaustion of years spent counting pennies. ""Her heart medication is three hundred and forty dollars. The pharmacy won't release it without cash, and my shift was supposed to pay for it today. If I'm sitting here doing tests while Susan cuts my timecard, Martha won't have her pills tonight. So if you want my DNA, I need three hundred and forty dollars sent to the pharmacy on Fifth Street right now.""
Nathan closed his eyes for three seconds, his jaw clenched so tight the tendons stood out against his neck. When he opened them, his voice was choked with emotion. ""Arthur,"" he said to his lead bodyguard at the door. ""Go to Fifth Street personally. Pay whatever account Martha Ives has there for the next ten years. Hire a private nurse to sit by her bed starting this afternoon. Buy whatever groceries that house needs."" He looked at Claire. ""Your grandmother will never worry about a pill again for the rest of her life. I swear that on my mother's grave.""
Claire swallowed hard, feeling an unfamiliar sting in the corners of her eyes. She leaned forward and let Dr. Morrison rub the cotton swab against the inside of her cheek.
While the doctor packed his equipment and hurried to the private medical wing down the corridor, Evelyn Vance walked in through the double doors, holding a polished tablet. Her composure was back, smooth and impenetrable as a sheet of ice.
""Nathan,"" Evelyn said softly, standing just behind his shoulder. ""While we wait for this little formality, we have serious business. The regional union representative is downstairs. They heard about the line shutdown at Station 27, and they're threatening a wildcat strike unless Susan Pike is reassigned.""
Nathan didn't look at her. ""Susan Pike is already gone. She's suspended pending a criminal safety investigation.""
Evelyn's eyes narrowed slightly. ""Susan has been with this plant for eight years. She was only trying to ensure our delivery numbers matched the quarterly projections we submitted to the lenders.""
""She ordered a worker to clean her shoe on her knees, Evelyn,"" Nathan said, turning slowly to face his vice president. ""And she bypassed a hydraulic safety interlock that could have severed a human hand. If you think quarterly numbers excuse that, you and I are about to have a very different conversation.""
Evelyn took a step back, her lips pressed into a bloodless line. She cast a venomous glance at Claire sitting across the room, but before she could speak, the glass door swung open.
Dr. Morrison walked in. He wasn't looking at his papers; his eyes were fixed directly on Nathan Weller, and his hands were shaking so hard the printout fluttered like a dry leaf.
""Nathan,"" the old doctor whispered.
May you like
Nathan froze. ""Tell me.""
""Twenty-three matching genetic markers,"" Dr. Morrison said, his voice trembling through the silent room. ""The probability of paternity is ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent. Claire Ives is Clara Weller. Your daughter is home.""
