Chapter 9 - The DNA Collection
By 8:15 AM, the black Maybach was parked half a block away from St. Jude’s Elementary, an aging parochial school with chipped brickwork and a chain-link fence.
Claire had adamantly refused to let Thomas drive all the way up to the school gate. *“People talk, Ethan. The nuns will ask questions. The other parents will talk.”*
She walked the three boys to the gate herself. I watched through the tinted window.
I watched as she kissed each boy on the top of the head. Toby clung to her coat for an extra hug. Sam adjusted his glasses and marched through the double doors with his head held high.
Leo stopped at the gate.
He didn't look at his mother. He turned around, looked straight down the street, and stared directly at the tinted windshield of my car. Even fifty yards away, I could feel the weight of his gaze. He knew I was inside. He raised his chin, held my gaze for three seconds, and then walked inside.
Claire walked back to the car, her breath misting in the freezing morning air. She opened the door and slid into the leather seat beside me, looking straight ahead.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Northwestern Memorial," I replied. "I've already arranged a private suite in the genetics department. Dr. Robert Chen is the chief of medical genetics. He handled my father's oncology panels years ago. He is discreet, he is fast, and he doesn't leak to the press."
"We can't test the boys without their samples, Ethan," Claire said, frowning. "They are in school until three."
I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out a small, sterile plastic evidence pouch.
Inside were three items: a plastic juice box straw Leo had used that morning, an apple core Sam had discarded into the trash, and a clean bandage I had pulled from Toby's scraped knee when I carried him to the bedroom last night.
Claire stared at the pouch, her eyes widening. "You went through our trash?"
"I asked Marcus's team to collect them while you were in the kitchen," I admitted calmly. "I also took three hairs from the pillowcases when I walked into the hallway this morning. Along with my own buccal swab, Dr. Chen has everything he needs for a rush PCR analysis. We will have preliminary results by noon."
Claire looked at me, a mixture of disbelief and quiet fury in her eyes. "You really are a Whitmore. Calculating. Ruthless. Always three steps ahead."
"When it comes to my family? Yes," I said without hesitation. "Nine years ago, I was passive. I let things happen to us. I let my mother dictate our marriage, I let corporate politics dictate my time, and I lost the only woman I ever loved and three sons I didn't even know existed. I will never be passive again, Claire. Not with you. Not with them."
Her breath hitched. She looked away, staring out the window as Chicago traffic crawled along the Dan Ryan Expressway.
"Don't say things like that," she whispered.
"It's the truth."
"It's too late for the truth, Ethan."
We arrived at Northwestern Memorial through the private underground executive entrance. Dr. Chen was already waiting in a secure consultation room on the fourteenth floor.
He didn't ask questions. He took the evidence bags, administered a fresh buccal swab to the inside of my cheek, and labeled the vials with numerical codes instead of names.
"Rush protocol, Mr. Whitmore?" Chen asked, adjusting his spectacles.
"Fastest you have, Robert. Cost is irrelevant."
"Three hours," Chen said. "We'll run a 24-marker STR analysis. It will provide 99.999% statistical certainty."
Claire sat in the corner of the room, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, completely silent.
The three-hour wait in that sterile, white-walled room was the longest three hours of my life. I had waited for board votes that determined billions of dollars. I had waited for regulatory approvals that could have bankrupted my company.
None of it compared to the agonizing tick of the wall clock in Dr. Chen's office.
Claire refused coffee. She refused water. She sat like a statue, staring at the floor, lost in the memories of a decade of survival.
At precisely 11:45 AM, the heavy oak door clicked open.
Dr. Chen walked in, holding a single sheet of paper inside a manila folder. His expression was completely neutral, professional to the core.
He looked at Claire, then at me.
May you like
"The results are conclusive, Mr. Whitmore."
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