Chapter 4 — The Pregnancy Report
Chapter 4 — The Pregnancy Report
The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not the ordinary silence of a sleeping house.
The kind that comes after people have decided to stop pretending.
Irene sat across from me at the dining table in the temporary house my father had secretly purchased twelve years earlier.
The property was outside Scottsdale, surrounded by desert and tall walls, with no neighbors close enough to watch who came and went.
For the first time since I had married Irene, my mother didn't know where we were.
That should have made me feel safe.
Instead, it made me realize how dangerous our lives had become.
I placed the folder Daniel had given me on the table.
Inside were copies of financial records, trust documents, and medical information.
Irene looked at the last section.
“What's that?”
“I don't know.”
I opened it.
My stomach tightened.
It was her prenatal report.
Not the current one.
An older copy.
Three months earlier.
I read the first page.
Then the second.
Then I looked at Irene.
“Did you ever see this?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Your doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Then why is my mother mentioned?”
Irene went still.
“What?”
I turned the page.
There was a note.
Family representative requested additional access to patient's medical information.
The name beneath it was:
Margaret Wentworth.
I looked at Irene.
“Did you authorize this?”
“No.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“No.”
My hands began to shake.
I turned another page.
There were questions about her pregnancy.
Estimated delivery date.
Blood type.
Genetic screening.
Previous medical history.
And one question that made my blood run cold.
Would the patient consent to temporary guardianship of the unborn child if medically necessary?
I stared at it.
“Why would anyone ask that?”
Irene's face had gone pale.
“I don't know.”
“Did anyone talk to you about guardianship?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“I would remember.”
I closed the folder.
My mother had been preparing for something.
And she had started before the night she attacked Irene.
Long before.
At 8:30 the next morning, I called Irene's obstetrician.
Dr. Karen Wells agreed to meet us privately.
She looked uncomfortable when we entered her office.
“Mr. Wentworth, I understand you're concerned.”
“I need answers.”
She glanced at Irene.
“About what?”
I placed the report on her desk.
“Who requested this?”
She read it.
Her expression changed.
“I didn't authorize this.”
“Then who did?”
“I don't know.”
“This is your patient's medical record.”
“Yes.”
“Someone accessed it.”
She looked at the screen.
“Apparently.”
I pointed to Margaret's name.
“Did my mother ever come here?”
The doctor hesitated.
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“I believe three.”
“Why?”
“She said she was your wife's mother-in-law and that you had given her permission to help with the pregnancy.”
I stared.
“I never gave her permission.”
Dr. Wells nodded.
“I understand that now.”
Irene spoke quietly.
“What did she ask?”
The doctor looked at her.
“Mostly routine questions.”
“About my health?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Your blood pressure. Your weight. Your appointments.”
Irene's hand tightened around mine.
“Anything about the baby?”
The doctor hesitated.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“She asked about the baby's genetic screening.”
I felt a cold sensation move through my body.
“Why?”
“She said there were family medical concerns.”
I looked at Irene.
“What family medical concerns?”
The doctor shook her head.
“She didn't specify.”
I opened the report again.
“What does this mean?”
Dr. Wells leaned forward.
“There is something I should have noticed earlier.”
“What?”
“This note isn't from my office.”
I froze.
“What?”
“The formatting is wrong.”
She pointed at the bottom.
“The medical terminology is accurate, but this section was added after the report was finalized.”
“By whom?”
“I don't know.”
“Can you find out?”
“Yes.”
She turned toward her computer.
After several minutes, her face became pale.
“I have an access log.”
“Show me.”
She hesitated.
Then turned the monitor.
The record had been accessed eleven times.
The first access was by Dr. Wells.
The second by a nurse.
The remaining nine were under a generic administrative account.
I looked at the dates.
Every access occurred after my mother moved into our home.
Irene whispered:
“Why would she need my medical records nine times?”
I didn't answer.
Because I was afraid I already knew.
We left the hospital at noon.
Irene was quiet.
I knew she was thinking about the same thing I was.
The question of the baby.
Not the pregnancy.
The baby.
My mother hadn't been interested in Irene's health.
She had been interested in what Irene was carrying.
That distinction terrified me.
At the car, Irene stopped.
“Austin.”
“Yes?”
“There's something I never told you.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“Before we got married, your mother asked me whether I could have children.”
My jaw tightened.
“When?”
“About six months before our wedding.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her I didn't know.”
“What did she say?”
Irene looked away.
“She said that was unfortunate.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“She said the Wentworth name needed an heir.”
My stomach dropped.
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I thought she was being old-fashioned.”
I shook my head.
“She wasn't.”
“I know.”
She touched her stomach.
“Now I know.”
That evening, Daniel Mercer called.
“Mr. Wentworth.”
“What did you find?”
“Something concerning.”
My pulse quickened.
“What?”
“The trust has a secondary clause.”
“What clause?”
“It activates fully when the child is born.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Daniel's voice was grave.
“You don't know the important part.”
“What?”
“If the mother is declared medically or legally incapable of caring for the child before birth, temporary control of the trust can be transferred.”
“To whom?”
He paused.
“The trustee can appoint a temporary guardian.”
“Who?”
“Your mother nominated herself.”
I couldn't speak.
I looked at Irene.
She was watching me.
“How?”
“Through documents filed two months ago.”
“Who signed them?”
“Your mother.”
“Not Irene?”
“No.”
“Not me?”
“No.”
“Then they're fraudulent.”
“Yes.”
I clenched my jaw.
“Who witnessed them?”
Daniel hesitated.
“Dr. Karen Wells.”
My blood ran cold.
“That's impossible.”
“She signed as a witness.”
I hung up.
We returned to Dr. Wells the next morning.
She looked terrified when I showed her the document.
“I didn't sign this.”
I placed it in front of her.
“That's your signature.”
“Yes.”
“You said you didn't sign it.”
“I didn't.”
“Then someone forged it.”
She stared at the page.
“I remember Margaret asking me to sign something.”
“What?”
“She said it was an emergency authorization.”
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
I looked at Irene.
Dr. Wells began crying.
“I trusted her.”
I felt anger rise.
“You should have trusted your patient.”
“I know.”
She wiped her eyes.
“I am sorry.”
“Did she threaten you?”
The doctor hesitated.
“Yes.”
“With what?”
“She said she could have me investigated for negligence.”
“Why?”
“Because of something that happened during your wife's first ultrasound.”
Irene looked confused.
“What happened?”
Dr. Wells looked at her.
“The ultrasound showed a small abnormality.”
Irene's face changed.
“What abnormality?”
“A possible issue with the placenta.”
“Why wasn't I told?”
“I was going to explain it.”
“But?”
“Margaret told me you already knew.”
Irene stared at her.
“I didn't.”
The doctor closed her eyes.
“She told me you had been informed.”
My hands curled into fists.
“So my mother stopped you from telling my wife about a pregnancy complication?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
Irene whispered:
“Maybe she wanted me scared.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
She didn't answer.
But I knew.
Fear makes people easier to control.
That afternoon, Detective Harris arrived at the house.
She brought new evidence.
“We searched Margaret's computer.”
“What did you find?”
“Emails.”
She handed me a printed transcript.
The first was between Margaret and an unknown person.
The baby is confirmed.
Another:
I need access before the birth.
Another:
The mother cannot be allowed to control the trust.
My stomach twisted.
Then came the final email.
If Austin learns about the medical records, we're finished.
I looked at Detective Harris.
“Who sent these?”
“Your mother.”
“To whom?”
“We haven't identified the account owner yet.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
She handed me another page.
A bank account number.
The same account that had received money from Margaret.
I recognized the name.
Carla Wentworth.
I stared.
“My sister.”
Detective Harris nodded.
“We believe Carla was helping your mother.”
Irene looked at me.
“There's more.”
The detective pulled out another document.
“This was found in Carla's apartment.”
It was a medical authorization form.
I read it.
My name appeared as the father.
Irene's name appeared as the mother.
And beneath them:
Temporary guardian: Margaret Wentworth.
The date was three weeks from now.
My blood ran cold.
“That date hasn't happened.”
“Exactly.”
Detective Harris looked at me.
“They planned it in advance.”
I looked at Irene.
“What were they planning?”
The detective answered.
“To declare you medically incapable of caring for your child.”
Irene's face went white.
“How?”
“We don't know yet.”
I looked at the document.
Then I noticed something.
A handwritten note in the margin.
After delivery.
Two words.
Nothing more.
But they were enough.
My mother hadn't simply wanted the money.
She wanted my child.
That night, Irene couldn't sleep.
I found her sitting in the nursery.
We hadn't finished decorating it.
There was a crib.
A rocking chair.
A small shelf filled with children's books.
She sat in the chair with one hand over her stomach.
I knelt beside her.
“You okay?”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“I thought your mother hated me.”
“She doesn't hate you.”
“What does she want?”
I swallowed.
“Our baby.”
Irene's eyes filled with tears.
“Why?”
“Because of the trust.”
“And the money?”
“Yes.”
She looked down.
“How much?”
“Almost nineteen million.”
She closed her eyes.
“I wish there were no money.”
“So do I.”
“What happens when the baby is born?”
I took her hand.
“My mother doesn't get near you.”
“And if she tries?”
I looked into her eyes.
“Then she goes through me.”
Irene began crying.
“I don't want to fight your family.”
“You aren't.”
I squeezed her hand.
“You're protecting our child.”
She looked at me.
“And you?”
“I'm protecting both of you.”
At 11:36 p.m., my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A man's voice said:
“You've been asking too many questions.”
“Who is this?”
“You should be more concerned about your wife.”
I stood.
“Where are you?”
“You think this is about money.”
I looked at Irene.
“It isn't.”
“No.”
The voice became colder.
“It's about control.”
My pulse quickened.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to sign the trust over.”
“No.”
“Then your wife won't make it to the delivery room.”
My blood turned to ice.
“Who are you?”
The line went dead.
I immediately called Detective Harris.
Then I checked the security system.
No breach.
No movement.
Nothing.
But five minutes later, Irene screamed from upstairs.
I ran.
She was standing in the nursery.
The window was open.
The curtains were moving in the wind.
On the crib was a small white envelope.
I picked it up.
Inside was a photograph.
Our unborn child had never been born.
Yet someone had already written a name beneath the ultrasound image.
PROPERTY OF THE WENTWORTH TRUST.
I stared at it.
Irene collapsed against me.
I held her tightly.
“No one owns our child.”
She was shaking.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
I looked at the photograph again.
Then I noticed something written on the back.
A single sentence.
Margaret is not the one you should be afraid of.
I froze.
Because if Margaret wasn't the person behind all of this…
Then someone else had been controlling her.
Someone powerful enough to access medical records.
Someone who knew about the trust.
Someone who knew our movements.
And someone who had just threatened my unborn child.
I looked at Irene.
“We're not dealing with my mother anymore.”
“Who are we dealing with?”
I stared into the dark hallway.
“I don't know.”
Then my phone rang again.
This time, the caller ID displayed a name.
Carla.
I answered.
She didn't say hello.
She whispered:
“Austin…”
“What?”
“You need to listen to me.”
“Where are you?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Carla, what did you and Mom do?”
Silence.
Then she said:
“Mom isn't trying to steal the baby.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“Then what is she trying to do?”
Carla began crying.
“She wants the baby alive.”
I stared at Irene.
“Why?”
Carla's voice broke.
“Because someone already paid her for it.”
The line went dead.
May you like
And suddenly, the nineteen million dollars inside my father's trust no longer seemed like the biggest secret in our family.
Something far more valuable was waiting to be born.
