Suppose he wasn’t Paige’s biological father?
Suppose he wasn’t Sam’s or Anya’s father either?
Slow down, he told himself.
But there really was no time to slow down, was there? The truth, one way or the other, was barreling toward him like a freight train. He still really couldn’t fathom it. For one thing, Sam looked just like him, everyone said so, and though he couldn’t see it himself — could any parents? — he knew...
He knew what?
It simply wasn’t possible. Ingrid would never do that to him. And yet that small niggling voice taunted him. He remembered reading some statistic that 10 percent of fathers are unknowingly raising another man’s child. Or was it really 2 percent? Or was that all nonsense?
When Simon reached the clearing behind the pediatric wing, Randy Spratt was already on a bench in the corner. Spratt sat upright with his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his trench coat, his gaze darting about like a scared rodent.
Simon sat next to him. The two men stared straight ahead.
“You got the money?” Spratt whispered.
“This isn’t a ransom drop, you know.”
“Do you have it or not?”
Simon reached into his backpack for the plastic bag. He hesitated. He didn’t have to go through with opening this particular Pandora’s box. Maybe ignorance was bliss in some cases, no? He’d lived happily without knowing Ingrid’s “secret past.”
Right, and look where that had brought them.
Simon handed over the cash. For a second, he feared that Spratt would count it right there and then, but the plastic bag quickly disappeared into the trench coat.
“Well?” Simon asked.
“The one you said was a priority. The yellow toothbrush.”
Simon felt his mouth go dry. “Yes.”
“I rushed that one, so it’s the only result I have with a scientifically definitive conclusion.”
Interesting that Spratt hadn’t told him that before he got paid, but maybe that didn’t matter.
“And what’s the conclusion?” Simon asked.
“It’s positive.”
“Wait, does that mean...?”
“You’re the biological father.”
Relief, sweet relief, flooded Simon’s lungs and veins.
“And for what it’s worth, even though the results are only preliminary, all indications are that you’re the biological father for all three.”
Without another word, Randy Spratt rose and walked away. Simon just sat there, unable to move. He watched an old woman wearing the standard-issue hospital smock and leaning on a walker make her way to a flower bed. She bent down and smelled the flowers, both literally and metaphorically. Simon did the latter by just sitting there and watching. A group of young medical residents sat on the grass and ate gyros from a nearby food truck. They all looked both frayed and happy, like Ingrid did during her residency, when she worked ridiculous hours but knew that she was one of the lucky few who found her calling.
Being a physician, Simon knew, was indeed a calling.
Weird thought, but there you go. Or maybe not so weird. Simon had recently learned that Paige had shared her mother’s calling. Under normal circumstances, it would mean the world to him. In some ways, it still did.
He had to find her.
He checked his phone, hoping to see something from Elena Ramirez. No new message. He typed her another one:
DNA test shows I’m Paige’s father. Still don’t know how she hooked up with Aaron, but I think it’s about the illegal adoptions. Call me when you finish with Alison Mayflower.
It was time to head back to Ingrid’s room. He stood up, tilted his face to the sky, closed his eyes. He just needed another moment or two. He and Ingrid had taken a few yoga classes as a marital bonding thing, and the instructor had been all about the importance of breathing. So he took a deep inhale, held it, let it out slowly.
Didn’t help.
He felt his phone vibrate. Elena was replying:
Heading over the border to Canada for this meet, so I might be out of touch for a few days. Where will you be?
Canada? He wasn’t sure what to make of that.
He typed: At hospital for now, but that could change.
He hit Send and waited. The dancing dots started up, showing that Elena was typing.
Let me know of any new developments. It’s vital to keep me in the loop, even if I can’t reply.
Simon wrote back that he would as he checked in with hospital security and took the elevator up to the ICU. He was tempted to ask Elena why Canada or why she might not be able to reply, but he figured that she’d tell him what he needed to know. As the elevator doors opened, the terrible ache from what van de Beek had told him returned tenfold.
What had happened to Paige on that campus?
Block, he told himself. Block or you won’t be able to take another step.
The nurses were in with Ingrid, bathing her and changing her clothes, so Sam paced the corridor. He spotted his father and gave him a quick, hard hug.
“Sorry,” Sam said.
“It’s okay.”
“I didn’t mean it. About you getting Mom shot.”
“I know.”
Sam gave his father a weary smile. “You know what Mom would say if she heard me blame you?”
“What?”
“She’d say I was being sexist. She’d say I would never have blamed her if you got shot.”
Simon liked that. “You know what? I think you’re right.”
“Where were you?” Sam asked.
Simon wanted to protect his son, only natural, but he also didn’t want to coddle him. “I just talked to one of Paige’s professors.”
Sam looked at him.
He used the vaguest terms possible to let Sam know about the sexual assault — he may not want to coddle, but he didn’t want to just chuck his son in the deep end either. Sam listened without interrupting. He fought to remain stoic, but Simon recognized the telltale quiver of his lower lip.
“When was this exactly?” Sam asked when his father had finished.
“I’m not sure. Toward the end of first semester.”
“She called me one night. Paige. Out of the blue. I mean, I don’t think we’d exchanged more than a few texts, and we never called each other.”
“What did she say?”
“She just said she wanted to talk.”
“About?”
“I don’t know.” Sam gave a too-big shrug. “It was late on a Friday night. There was a party at Martin’s. I didn’t really listen. I just wanted to get her off the line. So yeah, that’s what I did.”
Simon put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “It might not have been the same night, Sam.”
“Right,” Sam said in the most unconvincing voice he could muster. “Might not have been.”
Simon was about to follow up more, but he heard someone clear his throat. He turned and was surprised to see the man who saved Ingrid’s life standing behind him.
“Cornelius?”
He still wore the ripped jeans and the unruly white-gray beard.
“How’s Ingrid doing?” Cornelius asked.
“Hard to say.” Simon brought Sam into the fold. “Sam, this is Cornelius. He...” Simon couldn’t tell him that Cornelius had shot Luther and thus saved not just Ingrid but Simon as well. “Cornelius owns the building where Paige lived in the Bronx. He’s been a big help to us.”
Sam stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, young man.” Cornelius faced Simon. “Can I talk to you a second?”
“Sure.”
“I need to use the bathroom anyway,” Sam said before moving down the corridor.
Simon turned to Cornelius. “What’s up?”