Chapter 3 - The Auditor’s LedgerThe private investigator’s office smelled of stale tobacco and old paper. Marcus Vance didn't look like a man from the movies; he looked like an accountant who had spent too many decades staring at tax shelters and offshore accounts. He slid a thick manila folder across the metal desk.
“Your mother’s check was for fifty thousand dollars, Ethan,” Vance said without looking up, tapping a yellow pencil against his teeth. “A tidy sum in 2021. But Samantha didn't keep it.”
I opened the folder. Inside were bank statements, birth certificates, and medical intake forms from a county hospital on the West Side.
“What do you mean she didn't keep it?”
“She endorsed it over to a foster care advocacy group within forty-eight hours,” Vance said. “Every single penny. She didn’t want your family’s blood money. She rented a small basement apartment off Cicero Avenue, worked three cleaning jobs while carrying a high-risk twin pregnancy, and prayed you would come looking for her.”
“Why didn’t she contact me directly?” My voice cracked. “She had my number.”
“Your mother changed your phone plan the day after the divorce was finalized,” Vance replied smoothly, watching my reaction through half-closed eyes. “New number, new address in Vancouver. You were unreachable unless you reached out. And you didn't, did you? You were too busy climbing the corporate ladder at Apex Technologies.”
The guilt hit me like a physical blow. I remembered those months in Vancouver—working eighty-hour weeks, drinking scotch alone in a glass-walled high-rise, convincing myself I was “moving on.”
“The twins,” I whispered, turning the page. “Tell me about the twins.”
Vance’s pencil stopped tapping. He leaned back in his leather chair, the springs groaning in protest.
“Boy and girl. Born prematurely on November 14, 2021. Samantha was in labor for twenty-six hours. Complications were severe. Blood loss, emergency C-section. But they survived.”
“Both of them?”
“That’s where it gets complicated,” Vance said, leaning forward and tapping a certified hospital discharge document. “The girl went home with Samantha. Her name is Lily. She’s four years old now. Bright kid, according to the daycare records down on Monroe Street. But the boy...”
May you like
My throat tightened. “The boy?”
“The boy never left the hospital with her.”
