It's One of Us(33)

“I’ll make you a deal. No more forcing me to drag you out of bed, and I’ll make an extra cup in the morning. But only one, you hear me?”

Scarlett brightens and blows her a kiss. “Mwuah! Thanks, Mom!”

“Go brush your hair. You look like a wild woman.”

Truce.

After a cheerful Scarlett leaves with coffee heavily laden with milk and stevia sweetener in her thermos, Darby spends half an hour on the Winterborn website, searching for anything that might help her argument, then another hour with her files, picking through her privacy statements, her agreements, what she’s allowed to ask for regarding the identity of her donor and what she is not, taking copious notes, before she picks up her phone. She is going to get to the bottom of this. She wishes the original founder was still alive; a quick search shows he passed away almost a decade earlier. Him, she knew, and liked, though considering, realizes he was the one who’d let this happen. She’s going to have to talk to someone who will certainly deny any responsibility or culpability, but at least there’s a chance she can get more information.

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?”