She dials the phone, puts it on speaker, tapping the pen against her teeth, frowning slightly. Gearing up. Resting bitch face.
“Winterborn Life Sciences. Amanda speaking. How can I help you today?”
The chirpy voice sets Darby on edge.
“My name is Darby Flynn. I am a client, and I have an appointment to speak with Mr. Slade.”
“Oh hello, Ms. Flynn. It’s wonderful to hear from you. I hope you’re well?”
Like they’re friends. Like they’ve met. Like she’s called to have a chat.
“I’m not well. I need to speak with Mr. Slade, right now.”
Chirpy Amanda turns sad in a heartbeat. “I’m so sorry. He’s not available. Can I leave a message for him?”
“We have a meeting.”
“Yes, unfortunately, I was about to call you and tell you he’s tied up. He asked that we reschedule for next week. But if there’s a message I can relay in the meantime?”
Darby sees red. “Tell him he needs to get on the call with me immediately. I’ve just discovered Winterborn has been selling my donor’s sperm to multiple families.”
“Well, you know our policy—”
“Amanda, right? Seriously. Either get him on the phone for me or the police will be calling you in five minutes. I’m surprised they haven’t called you already.”
“The police?”
“Get me Slade. Now.”
A click. Has she hung up? No, there’s the burble of elevator music, soft and sibilant in the background.
Darby takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. She needs to be careful here, not come in guns blazing. But now that she’s on the phone, now that she’s opened the door, she’s furious, beside herself with anger. There are rules to these delicate matters. Ways to handle things. How dare they create such a terrible situation?
“Thomas Slade. Sorry for that miscommunication. How may I be of service?”
Let it go, let it go.
“Mr. Slade, I’m a client of Winterborn, and I’ve just discovered my donor’s sperm has been disseminated well past the number of times it’s allowed to be used. Per the contract we signed, no more than ten individual families are allowed to purchase the same donor.”
“Mrs. Flynn, is it?”
“Ms.”
“Ah. Yes. Ms. Flynn. I’m sure this is a simple misunderstanding. Our protocols—”
“As of this moment, there are at least twenty-eight ancestry matches to my daughter. They range in age from two years to twenty. One of them is the suspect in a murder. Now, would you like to explain your protocols?”
Silence, then a brisk, no-nonsense tone.
“May I have your donor’s profile number, please.”
Darby hangs up wondering if she’s done the right thing by calling. Slade seemed concerned, yes, but he’d shuffled her off the phone almost as quickly as he’d gotten on with promises to look into the situation and return her call. And he seemed surprised by her announcement. Why hadn’t the police been in touch? Or was he simply a fine actor, used to keeping hysterical parents calm in a crisis?
She pours a fresh cup of coffee. She has constructed a beautiful world and she’s happy, they’re all happy, and suddenly, the cracks are showing along the edges, and she has no idea how to mend things.
On impulse, she dials Peyton. They established ground rules when he left for school—calls on Sundays only, no surprise visits, all the things she knew he needed to have comfortable boundaries and autonomy. It’s worked well for the first two years he’s been at school. But she wants to hear his voice. She wants to warn him of the storm to come.
He answers on the first ring.
“Mom? Are you okay?”
His voice is so deep, it sometimes surprises her. She’s made a man. He’s still a boy, her little boy, but he’s a man now, too.
“I just wanted to say hi. Sunday felt like a long way off.”
“Well, hi.” He laughs. “I always like hearing from you.”
“Anything exciting happening on campus?”
“Nothing unusual. I have an early midterm, so I’ve mostly been in the library, studying.”
“Aren’t you a good boy?”
“You brought me up well.”
She hears voices in the background, a murmur, and what sounds like crying. “Do you have people over?”
The noise stops. “Sorry. YouTube. An ASMR room to help me focus. I don’t want to rush you off, but I am in the middle of something. Want to tell me what’s really going on?”
She explains as succinctly as she can. “I can’t imagine this isn’t going to be big news locally, maybe even nationally, and I’m sure people will seek you out.”
“Wow. Is Scar okay?”
“She’s justifiably upset.”
“I bet. I’ll text her, see if I can calm her down. But, you know, it doesn’t affect me otherwise. He’s not my donor. The media and police shouldn’t bother me at all.”
“You know how the press is, sweetie. They will hunt down every angle they can. Proximity will be enough.”
“I wouldn’t worry so much about the press. I’d be more concerned about the lawyers.”
“What do you mean?”
“Winterborn will most certainly be sued, I would assume in some sort of class action, and there will be discovery, and every family who’s used their services regardless of whether they belong to Scarlett’s donor or others will be scrutinized.”
Darby sighs. “I suppose you’re right. You planning to go to law school now?”
“I’ve considered it,” he says lightly.
A spike of pride in her heart. This is news. She won’t think about the money, the time, the effort, the challenges, will only be happy for him finding his own path, deciding the course of his life.
“That’s great, honey.” The background noise starts up again, his video coming off pause. “I better let you go.”
“Okay. Keep in touch, though. I can come home this weekend if you want. I have plans, but I can break them. It might be good for Scar to have someone to talk to. You know, someone that she doesn’t blame. Sorry, Mom, that sounded bad. I just assume she’s upset with you? Though you haven’t done anything wrong,” he adds quickly.
“No. You’re right, she is upset. I’ll text you, all right, honey? I love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
There is a squawk as he hangs up, and Darby can swear she hears a woman’s voice calling as the phone dies.
She freezes, listening, as if the connection hasn’t been cut.
Nothing.
Good grief, Darby. Your imagination is really running wild these days.
Later, exhausted, Darby decides a nap is in order. She wraps the blankets around her and falls into a fitful sleep, startling at every creak, dog bark, engine whine, door slam. These are the sounds that have always comforted her before, and now they are ominous, frightening. A woman has died, been murdered, and while she hasn’t fixated on Beverly Cooke’s death, suddenly it is all she can think about. What it must have been like to know you were about to die. The panic, the fear, the hypoxia.
She wakes to the sounds of lapping water and shattering glass, but quickly realizes it was just a dream, just a nightmare. Her imagination on overdrive.