Chapter 2 - THE SECOND PAGE
“Give me the report.”
Robert looked at Ethan.
“Claire—”
“Give it to me.”
Patricia moved toward us.
I stepped in front of her.
“You don't touch anything else in this house.”
“This is Reynolds family business.”
“My son is Reynolds family.”
Her mouth twisted.
“That is exactly what the test disputes.”
Behind me, Ethan began crying harder.
That ended the conversation.
I crouched beside him.
“Hey. Look at me.”
His wet eyes found mine.
“You didn't do anything wrong.”
“Grandma said I'm trash.”
My throat tightened.
“She lied.”
Michael finally came toward us.
“Buddy—”
Ethan hid behind my shoulder.
Michael stopped as though our son had slapped him.
I didn't comfort him.
“Take Ethan upstairs,” I told him.
“Claire, we need to talk.”
“Not while he's standing in garbage your mother brought into our house.”
Michael looked down.
Then he nodded.
When he reached for Ethan's hand, Ethan wouldn't take it.
That hurt me more than I wanted Michael to see.
Eventually Michael carried him upstairs.
The second they disappeared, I turned to Robert.
“The report.”
He handed it over.
Patricia snapped, “You have no right.”
I unfolded the pages.
The first page looked official enough to someone like me. Names. Sample identifiers. Percentages. Laboratory language.
My name wasn't there.
Ethan's was.
Michael's was.
A line near the bottom stated that the tested man was excluded as the biological father of the tested child.
My fingers went cold.
For one terrible second, the room tilted.
Not because I believed it.
Because I knew it couldn't be true.
Michael was Ethan's father.
There had been no other man.
Ever.
I looked at Patricia.
She gave me a satisfied little smile.
“Now perhaps you'll explain yourself.”
“No.”
Her smile faded.
“Excuse me?”
“I don't have anything to explain.”
I turned to Robert.
“What did you see?”
He pointed to the second page.
Near the bottom was a collection table.
I read it twice.
The samples had supposedly been collected three weeks earlier.
One from Ethan Reynolds.
One from Michael Reynolds.
Both were listed as buccal swabs.
My eyes lifted.
Michael had never mentioned taking a DNA test.
Neither had Ethan.
I would have known if somebody had swabbed my son's mouth.
“That's impossible.”
Patricia's confidence returned.
“You weren't present.”
“He's five.”
“A grandmother can take her grandson places.”
“Not without telling me.”
“You've always been overprotective.”
I stared at the collection date.
It was a Tuesday.
Something tugged at my memory.
“Where was this done?”
Patricia hesitated.
“At the laboratory.”
Robert shook his head.
“The report doesn't say that.”
He pointed again.
The collection type was marked as home collection.
That mattered.
Not because it proved the result false.
It meant nobody at the laboratory had necessarily verified whose mouths those swabs came from.
“Who collected these?” I asked.
Patricia said nothing.
“Who put a swab in my son's mouth?”
“He didn't need to know what it was.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“What did you do to him?”
“Oh, stop being dramatic. I told him it was a little health game.”
“You secretly took DNA from my child?”
“I needed the truth.”
Robert interrupted.
“A home test can answer private questions, but chain of custody matters if you're claiming the samples belong to specific people.”
Patricia glared at him.
“You're defending her?”
“I'm reading the document.”
I looked at the sample codes.
Ethan's ended in 418.
Michael's ended in 481.
Similar.
Too similar?
Maybe that meant nothing.
I refused to invent an answer simply because I wanted one.
Footsteps sounded behind us.
Michael had returned.
“Ethan's watching television upstairs.”
I held up the report.
“Did you give your mother a DNA sample?”
“No.”
Patricia immediately said, “Michael.”
He ignored her.
“No, Claire.”
“Did you know she was testing Ethan?”
“No.”
“Then how did she get your DNA?”
Silence.
Michael's eyes moved to his mother.
Patricia stared back.
That silence stretched too long.
I felt something shift inside me.
Not proof.
Suspicion.
Michael reached for the papers.
“Let me see.”
I pulled them away.
“Answer me first.”
“I don't know how she got anything.”
Patricia grabbed her purse.
“I won't stand here while she interrogates my son.”
“You're not leaving yet.”
She laughed.
“You just ordered me out.”
“And now I'm asking who secretly collected DNA from my five-year-old.”
Her face hardened.
“I did.”
There it was.
One answer.
But only half of what I needed.
“You admitted taking Ethan's sample,” I said. “Where did Michael's come from?”
Patricia looked at her son.
Michael stared at the floor.
And for the first time in nine years of marriage, I couldn't tell whether my husband was frightened of his mother—or protecting her.
May you like
Patricia had admitted secretly swabbing Ethan. But the second sample was still unexplained, and Michael's silence made that question impossible to ignore.
In Chapter 3, I stopped arguing about the result and started reconstructing exactly what happened on the day Ethan's DNA was taken.
