Chapter 2 - The Impossible DNA
The La Jolla police arrived within ten minutes, turning our quiet estate into a circus of flashing blue lights.
Two officers swept the house while a detective named Miller sat with us in the living room.
The baby, now quietly drinking from the bottle left on the nightstand, was in the arms of a female paramedic.
"No signs of forced entry," Detective Miller said, jotting notes in a small pad. "And your security logs show no breaches."
"Someone had to bypass the system," Eric insisted, pacing in front of the fireplace. "You don't just walk into this house."
"Only three people have the master code," I said, staring blankly at the cold fireplace. "Me, Eric, and the head of our security firm."
"We'll need to speak with him," Miller said. "In the meantime, Child Protective Services will take custody of the infant."
"No," the word slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.
Eric stopped pacing and stared at me.
"Ma'am, we have an abandoned child here," Miller said gently. "We have to follow protocol."
"Look at her collarbone," I said, pointing toward the paramedic. "She has my family's birthmark."
Miller frowned, exchanging a look with Eric.
"Julia, sweetheart, you're exhausted," Eric said softly. "You're seeing things."
"I am not crazy, Eric! Look at it!"
The paramedic gently pulled the blanket back, revealing the crescent moon mark to the room.
Eric stepped closer, his brow furrowing as he saw it.
"That's... that's impossible," Eric whispered.
"We need a DNA test," I told the detective. "Right now. Fast-track it. Eric has the money to make it happen tonight."
"I can authorize a rapid forensic test," Miller agreed slowly. "But CPS still needs to monitor the child."
"She stays here," Eric commanded, his billionaire authority finally snapping into place. "I will hire off-duty officers to watch the door. But she stays."
Miller hesitated, then nodded. "I'll make the calls."
The next forty-eight hours were a blur of lawyers, social workers, and suffocating silence between Eric and me.
We slept in separate guest rooms.
On the third morning, Detective Miller returned, holding a sealed manila envelope.
We sat across from him at the dining table, the air thick with tension.
"The results were rushed," Miller said, sliding the envelope toward us. "I opened them in the car. You need to prepare yourselves."
"Just tell us," Eric demanded.
"The child is a 99.9% biological match to Eric Whitaker," Miller said.
My heart shattered into a million pieces.
I stood up, the chair scraping violently against the wood floor. "I'm packing my bags."
"Wait, Mrs. Whitaker," Miller said, holding up a hand. "Let me finish."
I froze, tears welling in my eyes.
"The child is also a 99.9% biological match to you," Miller stated evenly.
The room spun.
Eric grabbed the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. "What did you just say?"
"She is your biological daughter, Mrs. Whitaker," Miller repeated.
May you like
"I miscarried a year ago!" I screamed, the trauma tearing its way out of my throat. "I haven't been pregnant since!"
"I know," Miller said quietly. "Which means someone stole your genetic material."
