Chapter 13 - THE WOMAN IN THE PORTRAIT
There were no family stories about my grandfather remarrying.
No second Eleanor.
No hidden spouse.
No mysterious widow.
Yet Dr. Shaw insisted my grandmother had not been the person running Project Continuity during the later years.
“Who took her place?” I asked.
“A woman named Helen Ward.”
The name meant nothing.
My mother made a sound.
I looked at her.
“You know her.”
She sat down.
“Helen was Eleanor’s research assistant.”
My father stared.
“She disappeared after Mother died.”
Dr. Shaw continued through the phone.
“She didn’t disappear.”
“What happened?”
“She became the administrator of Project Continuity.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You called me.
Give me something useful.”
“She controlled the patient list.
The laboratories.
The doctors.
She was the one who recruited me.”
“When?”
“Six years ago.”
Before Ellie’s conception.
“Did you alter my embryo?”
“Yes.”
Grant closed his eyes.
“Why?”
“To correct the Mercer mutation.”
“Without our permission.”
“Yes.”
“Why us?”
“Because Helen told me your family had already consented generationally.”
I nearly laughed.
“That is not a thing.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew it then.”
Silence.
I pressed harder.
“What is Stage Three?”
Dr. Shaw’s breathing changed.
“Not what you think.”
“Then tell me.”
“Project Continuity changed after Eleanor died.
Helen became obsessed with proving permanent correction could be inherited.”
“We know.”
“No.
You know the scientific part.”
“What else?”
“She also believed families could be engineered socially.”
Grant frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Pairing.”
My stomach turned.
“Pairing people?”
“Yes.”
“Marriages?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Grant.
He looked at me.
“No,” he whispered.
Dr. Shaw continued.
“Families carrying specific mutations were matched with families possessing complementary profiles.”
I could barely speak.
“Grant and me.”
“Yes.”
Our marriage.
The thing I had once believed was the most important choice of my life.
Had someone arranged it?
“How?”
“Helen used schools.
Foundations.
Internships.
University networks.”
Grant stood abruptly.
“We met at a Kingsley Foundation fundraiser.”
My mother covered her mouth.
I remembered.
I was twenty-four.
Grant was twenty-seven.
He had been invited through a young entrepreneurs program.
We spoke for two hours beside a terrace overlooking the Hudson.
I had believed it was chance.
He had asked for my number.
I had fallen in love.
“Grant,” I whispered.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
His answer came instantly.
“I swear to you.
No.”
Dr. Shaw said, “Most participants didn’t.”
“Most?”
“Some did.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know all of them.”
“Did Grant?”
“No.”
He sat again.
Something in his face broke.
For the first time, Grant’s betrayal and mine occupied the same room.
He had deceived me.
But perhaps before he ever did, someone else had manipulated both of us.
That did not make his affair disappear.
It made the tragedy larger.
“Where is Helen Ward?” Nathan asked.
Dr. Shaw went silent.
“Doctor?”
A noise came through the line.
A door.
Then Dr. Shaw whispered, “I have to go.”
“No.
Tell me where you are.”
“I sent you something.”
“What?”
“The Stage Three registry.”
The call ended.
Nathan checked the secure server.
A file appeared.
Password protected.
Grant said, “What password?”
I knew.
“1703.”
The file opened.
Names filled the screen.
Fourteen original family lines.
Then dozens of pairings.
Some successful.
Some discontinued.
Some marked deceased.
I found mine.
MARA KINGSLEY + GRANT MERCER
Status:
PAIRING SUCCESSFUL.
My hands went cold.
Below it:
OFFSPRING: ELEANOR ROSE MERCER
Then a second line.
SECOND OFFSPRING: RESERVED.
I stared.
Grant leaned closer.
“What the hell does reserved mean?”
I had no idea.
Then I saw the date.
A date after Ellie’s birth.
Eight months ago.
We had not attempted another pregnancy.
We had no embryos remaining.
At least that was what the clinic told us.
I looked at Grant.
“They kept one.”
His face went white.
Nathan scrolled.
Storage location:
VALE CONTINUITY FACILITY — SITE B.
My mother whispered, “Where is Site B?”
Rachel was already searching.
Then the conference-room doors opened.
A security officer entered.
“Ms. Kingsley.”
“What?”
“We have a visitor downstairs.”
“Who?”
The officer hesitated.
“Helen Ward.”
Every person in the room froze.
“She walked into the lobby?”
“Yes.”
“What does she want?”
“She says she wants to see Mara.”
Rachel reached for her radio.
“Hold her downstairs.”
The officer shook his head.
“She asked me to give you this first.”
He handed me an envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
A newborn baby.
No name.
No date.
Behind the baby, partially visible, stood Dr. Lydia Shaw.
My hands began shaking.
May you like
On the back, someone had written:
Ellie was not the last Kingsley-Mercer child.
