PART 4: THE TWINS ELEANOR STOLE — AND THE SECRET HIDDEN IN MY SON’S BLOOD
The moment Eleanor Vance whispered, “I know my daughter is in there,” Rebecca’s face turned so white that I thought she might faint.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
My newborn son slept against my chest, completely unaware that the woman standing outside our hospital room had spent twenty-seven years controlling the lives of everyone connected to him.
Rebecca pressed one trembling finger against her lips.
“Don’t answer,” she mouthed.
Another knock.
Three slow taps.
Then Eleanor’s voice returned, sweet and poisonous.
“Rebecca, darling, I know you can hear me. Open the door before someone gets hurt.”
My heart began hammering.
I looked at Rebecca.
“She’s your mother,” I whispered.
Rebecca shook her head violently.
“No. She’s the woman who stole me from my mother.”
Outside, Eleanor sighed.
“Vivian, I know you’ve been told some very disturbing things. Rebecca has always had an overactive imagination.”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
I could see tears gathering beneath her lashes.
“She used to say that when I was little,” she whispered. “Every time I remembered something I wasn’t supposed to remember.”
The door handle moved.
Once.
Twice.
Then stopped.
“Rebecca,” Eleanor called, her voice suddenly colder, “you know what happens when you disappoint me.”
Rebecca grabbed my wrist.
“We have to get you and the baby somewhere safe.”
“How?”
She looked toward the bathroom.
“There’s a service corridor behind the adjoining examination room. I can get us to the maternity nurses’ station.”
I stared at her.
“You expect me to walk? I gave birth less than an hour ago.”
Her expression softened.
“I’m sorry. I know. But we can’t stay here.”
I looked down at my son.
His tiny mouth moved in his sleep.
He was so small.
So innocent.
And already people were fighting over his future.
Something inside me hardened.
“No.”
Rebecca blinked.
“What?”
“I’m not running through a hospital with a newborn while I’m still recovering from childbirth.”
“Vivian—”
“No. Eleanor has spent years frightening everyone into doing exactly what she wants. I’m finished being frightened.”
I reached for the emergency call button.
Rebecca caught my hand.
“Wait.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t know who she has working for her.”
I stared at her.
Then slowly lowered my hand.
She was right about one thing.
Eleanor had already persuaded a hospital administrator to accompany her into my room with a custody petition that wasn’t even a court order.
But that didn’t mean everyone in the hospital belonged to her.
I picked up my phone.
And dialed 911.
Rebecca’s eyes widened.
“Vivian—”
I held up one finger.
The dispatcher answered.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“My name is Vivian Vance. I’m a patient in the maternity ward at Westbridge Memorial Hospital. A woman who has threatened to take my newborn is outside my locked room. She’s already attempted to use invalid custody paperwork to gain access to him. I need officers here.”
The dispatcher asked for my room number.
I gave it.
Then I added something important.
“Please tell the responding officers that I want to speak with them privately. I believe there may be a connection to an older medical records investigation.”
Rebecca stared at me.
For the first time since she’d entered, something resembling relief crossed her face.
Outside, Eleanor knocked again.
“Vivian, don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
I looked toward the door.
Then said loudly, “I’ve called the police, Eleanor.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Then Eleanor laughed.
A small, humorless laugh.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Her voice dropped.
“You really think the police can protect you from what you’ve already signed?”
My blood turned cold.
“What are you talking about?”
Rebecca’s expression changed.
She grabbed my arm.
“Don’t answer her.”
But Eleanor continued.
“Ask Rebecca about the papers you signed at St. Catherine’s.”
I stared at the door.
“I didn’t sign anything.”
“Didn’t you?”
Something slid beneath the door.
A single sheet of paper.
Rebecca bent down and picked it up.
The moment she saw it, she froze.
“What is it?” I whispered.
She didn’t answer.
“Rebecca?”
Slowly, she turned the document toward me.
It was a medical consent form.
Dated four years earlier.
The night of my accident.
At the bottom was a signature.
My signature.
Or something that looked exactly like it.
Above it were the words:
AUTHORIZATION FOR GENETIC MATERIAL STORAGE AND FUTURE REPRODUCTIVE RESEARCH.
I stared at the paper.
My mouth went dry.
“What is this?”
Rebecca swallowed.
“Vivian, did you ever agree to fertility treatment?”
“No.”
“Did you ever donate eggs or embryos?”
“Absolutely not.”
Her face drained of color.
Outside, Eleanor spoke again.
“You see, Vivian? You were always more involved than you realized.”
I looked at the signature.
It was mine.
At least, it looked like mine.
But I had been unconscious after a serious car accident.
And the date was wrong.
I remembered signing hospital paperwork two days after waking up.
Not the night I was admitted.
I looked at Rebecca.
“This was forged.”
She examined the document.
“Maybe. But there’s something else.”
She pointed toward a small code in the upper corner.
PROJECT E-27.
My heart began pounding.
“What does that mean?”
Rebecca’s expression changed.
“I’ve seen that code before.”
“Where?”
She hesitated.
“On my own childhood medical records.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
Rebecca sat on the edge of the chair.
For a moment, she looked nothing like the confident woman who had entered my room wearing hospital scrubs.
She looked like a frightened little girl.
“When I was seven, Eleanor told me I had a rare blood disorder. She said I needed special treatments and regular testing.”
I listened without moving.
“Every six months, she took me to a private clinic. They drew blood, photographed me, and made me answer questions about my health.”
“That sounds like ordinary medical monitoring.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears.
“Until I was nineteen and discovered the clinic wasn’t treating a disease.”
My stomach tightened.
“What were they doing?”
“Studying us.”
“Us?”
“Julian and me.”
She pulled an old photograph from her pocket.
Two children stood outside a large white mansion.
A boy and a girl.
Both dark-haired.
Both serious.
Both wearing identical silver bracelets.
On each bracelet was a number.
E-27-A.
E-27-B.
I looked up.
“Project E-27.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Exactly.”
Outside, Eleanor’s footsteps moved away from the door.
Rebecca waited until the sound faded.
Then she leaned closer.
“Vivian, Eleanor didn’t just steal two babies. She built an entire system around controlling what those children inherited.”
I frowned.
“Inherited?”
“Money. Medical information. Legal identities. Everything.”
I looked down at my son.
“And what does that have to do with him?”
Rebecca’s eyes moved toward the baby.
“Because Julian’s child may have inherited the same rare genetic marker we carry.”
I remembered Dr. Whitmore crying when he first examined my newborn.
The way he’d stared at my son’s face.
The way he’d asked who his father was.
The way he’d whispered, “This can’t be possible.”
I swallowed.
“Is my son sick?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Not necessarily. A genetic marker isn’t a diagnosis. But it could connect him to a family history Eleanor has spent decades hiding.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Then why did Dr. Whitmore react like that?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Because he recognized something he thought had disappeared from the family.”
“What?”
She looked toward the door.
Then whispered, “A birthmark.”
I instinctively touched the tiny crescent-shaped mark beneath my son’s left ear.
Rebecca stared at my hand.
Her expression crumpled.
“Oh, God.”
“What?”
She reached into her pocket again.
This time, she removed a small, faded photograph.
It showed a woman holding two newborn babies.
The woman had long brown hair, tired eyes, and a gentle smile.
Caroline Mercer.
Rebecca pointed toward the baby on the left.
“That’s Julian.”
Then she pointed toward the baby on the right.
“That’s me.”
I studied the photograph.
And then I noticed it.
A small crescent-shaped birthmark beneath the baby girl’s left ear.
The same mark.
The same location.
I looked up at Rebecca.
She was crying.
“I was born with it,” she whispered.
I stared at her.
“But your neck—”
She slowly moved her hair aside.
Just beneath her left ear was a faint crescent-shaped scar.
“Eleanor had it removed when I was nine.”
I felt sick.
“Why?”
“She told me it was medically necessary.”
Rebecca’s voice cracked.
“But years later, I found a letter from Caroline describing that birthmark. She said it was the first thing she noticed when she held me.”
I looked down at my son.
My chest tightened.
For the first time, the doctor’s reaction began to make sense.
He hadn’t simply seen a familiar genetic marker.
He had seen a physical resemblance to a child whose identity had been buried.
But something still bothered me.
“Rebecca, if Eleanor raised you and Julian, why would she need another baby?”
Rebecca wiped her eyes.
“Because we’re no longer under her control.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Julian started questioning the family trust. I discovered the medical files. And Nathaniel found Caroline.”
She looked at my son.
“Eleanor’s entire fortune depends on keeping certain family records sealed. If the truth comes out, she could lose control of assets she’s managed for decades.”
I stared at her.
“So she wants my son because he’s another heir?”
“Partly.”
“Partly?”
Rebecca took a deep breath.
“There’s something else.”
Before she could explain, my phone vibrated.
A message from Nathaniel.
NATHANIEL: REBECCA IS WITH YOU, ISN’T SHE?
I typed quickly.
VIVIAN: YES. ELEANOR IS OUTSIDE. POLICE ARE COMING.
His response appeared almost immediately.
NATHANIEL: GOOD. DO NOT LET REBECCA LEAVE UNTIL SHE TELLS YOU ABOUT THE ORIGINAL TRUST.
I stared at the screen.
Then looked at Rebecca.
“What original trust?”
Her expression changed.
“What?”
“Nathaniel says you need to tell me about the original trust.”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
“Oh, no.”
“What?”
She looked at my son.
Then whispered, “I hoped we’d have more time.”
“Rebecca, tell me.”
She reached into her bag and removed a folded document.
The paper was yellowed with age.
At the top were the words:
THE VANCE FAMILY GENERATIONAL TRUST — ORIGINAL ARTICLES OF SUCCESSION.
I stared at it.
Rebecca opened the document.
“Twenty-eight years ago, Nathaniel’s grandfather established a trust worth approximately $190 million.”
My mouth fell open.
“One hundred ninety million?”
Rebecca nodded.
“The money was supposed to pass to Nathaniel and his descendants. Eleanor was appointed temporary administrator.”
“Then why is she still controlling it?”
“Because Nathaniel was declared legally incapacitated when he was young. Eleanor claimed his medical condition made him unable to manage his affairs.”
I remembered Dr. Whitmore mentioning Nathaniel’s childhood illness.
“But he’s alive.”
“Yes.”
“And apparently capable of communicating.”
“Yes.”
“Then why hasn’t he taken control?”
Rebecca’s expression darkened.
“Because Eleanor has spent twenty-seven years making sure every legal record says otherwise.”
I stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
“According to the documents Eleanor submitted, Nathaniel died. His children were supposedly never born. The inheritance was redirected into a holding trust she controlled.”
My stomach twisted.
“But you and Julian are alive.”
“Exactly.”
I looked down at the paper.
Then noticed a handwritten amendment attached to the back.
“What is this?”
Rebecca leaned forward.
Her face changed.
“Vivian…”
I began reading aloud.
“In the event of fraudulent concealment of a lawful descendant, the trustee’s authority shall be suspended pending judicial review…”
I stopped.
Then continued.
“Any subsequently identified descendant shall retain an independent claim to the trust, subject to verification of lineage.”
I looked up.
“So if Nathaniel proves you’re his children…”
Rebecca nodded.
“Eleanor could lose control.”
“And if Julian has a child?”
Rebecca looked toward my newborn.
“That child could also have a claim.”
I stared at my son.
For the first time, I understood why Eleanor had been so desperate to take him.
She didn’t simply want another baby.
She wanted control over the person who could become another beneficiary.
But something still didn’t fit.
“Rebecca, why would Eleanor want custody of my son instead of trying to prove he isn’t related to your family?”
Rebecca’s expression became grave.
“Because the trust contains another provision.”
“What provision?”
She pointed to a paragraph near the bottom.
I read it.
Then read it again.
And suddenly, my hands began trembling.
“Where a minor beneficiary is subject to guardianship, distributions shall be administered by the legally appointed guardian, subject to fiduciary oversight.”
I looked up.
“Eleanor wants to become his guardian.”
Rebecca nodded.
“If she can obtain legal control, she can attempt to control access to his trust interest.”
My stomach dropped.
The custody petition.
The false accusations.
The divorce.
The way Eleanor had insisted I was unstable.
It all connected.
They had been building a case against me long before my son was born.
I looked at Rebecca.
“Julian knew?”
She hesitated.
“I don’t know how much he knew at the beginning.”
“Rebecca.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“He knew Eleanor was preparing custody documents.”
I felt something inside me break.
“He knew?”
“Yes.”
I looked away.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
Julian had told me he was trying to protect me.
That Eleanor had threatened him.
That he never wanted the divorce.
But he had still allowed his mother to prepare a plan to take my baby.
My child.
The one person I had fought so hard to protect.
I wiped my tears.
“Where is Julian now?”
Rebecca looked down.
“I don’t know.”
“His call ended with a crash. He told me to get out of the hospital.”
Her expression changed.
“What kind of crash?”
“I heard someone shouting. Then he screamed.”
Rebecca stood abruptly.
“Oh, no.”
“What?”
She grabbed her phone.
“Julian was supposed to meet Nathaniel this morning.”
My heart raced.
“Where?”
“At the old Vance estate.”
I stared at her.
“The mansion in the photograph?”
She nodded.
“He said he’d found something in Eleanor’s private office.”
“What?”
Rebecca’s hands trembled as she dialed a number.
“He wouldn’t tell me over the phone.”
The call went straight to voicemail.
She tried again.
Nothing.
Then she called Nathaniel.
No answer.
Her face drained of color.
“Something’s wrong.”
Before I could respond, the door opened.
I gasped.
But it wasn’t Eleanor.
Two uniformed police officers entered, accompanied by a nurse and Dr. Whitmore.
“Mrs. Vance?” the older officer asked.
I nodded.
“I’m Officer Daniels. We received a call about threats involving your newborn.”
I nearly cried with relief.
“Yes. My former mother-in-law tried to gain access to my son. She has been threatening me.”
Officer Daniels nodded.
“We’ve spoken with hospital security. The woman you identified has left the maternity floor.”
Rebecca stepped forward.
“Officer, we believe she may be connected to identity fraud and a missing-person investigation.”
Daniels looked at her.
“Do you have evidence?”
Rebecca held out the original trust document.
“And I have more.”
I reached into my handbag and removed the envelope of financial records.
“So do I.”
The officer examined the documents.
His expression became increasingly serious.
“Mrs. Vance, I think we should have a detective speak with you.”
I nodded.
“Please.”
He stepped into the hallway to make a call.
Dr. Whitmore approached my bed.
“Vivian, I also need to speak with you about your son’s medical records.”
My stomach tightened.
“Is something wrong?”
“He’s doing well. But I requested a review of the prenatal testing performed through the private laboratory.”
I looked at Rebecca.
She went still.
“What did you find?” I asked.
The doctor hesitated.
“The genetic report Julian was given contains an unusual discrepancy.”
My heart began pounding.
“What discrepancy?”
“Two separate samples were recorded under the same patient identifier.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the laboratory records may have mixed or substituted samples. We can’t draw conclusions about your child’s genetic history from those reports.”
Rebecca’s face went white.
“Two samples?”
Dr. Whitmore nodded.
“One was labeled with Vivian’s information. The other had no maternal identifier.”
I looked at him.
“Then whose sample was it?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know. But the record includes a reference number.”
He handed me a printed sheet.
I looked down.
E-27-C.
My blood turned cold.
Rebecca gasped.
“That’s impossible.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
She pointed toward the number.
“E-27-A was Julian.”
I nodded.
“E-27-B was you.”
She swallowed.
“And E-27-C…”
Her voice trailed off.
I stared at her.
“Rebecca?”
She looked at my newborn.
Then whispered, “There was a third child.”
The room went silent.
Dr. Whitmore frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Rebecca’s hands began trembling.
“When I was little, I used to have nightmares about a baby crying.”
I stared at her.
“I thought they were dreams. Eleanor told me I imagined things.”
She wiped her eyes.
“But sometimes I remembered a nursery. Three cribs. Three silver bracelets.”
My heart raced.
“Three?”
She nodded.
“Julian and I were told we were twins. But I found an old inventory record from the private clinic. It listed three infant identification bracelets.”
I looked at the doctor’s paper.
E-27-A.
E-27-B.
E-27-C.
My mouth went dry.
“Who was the third child?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Then my phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It showed three newborn babies lying side by side.
Each wore a silver bracelet.
E-27-A.
E-27-B.
E-27-C.
Beneath the photograph was a message.
YOU’VE FINALLY FOUND THE THIRD FILE.
I stared at the screen.
Another message arrived.
NOW ASK REBECCA WHY SHE NEVER TOLD YOU ABOUT THE CHILD SHE DELIVERED FOUR YEARS AGO.
My entire body went numb.
I slowly turned toward Rebecca.
Her expression had changed.
The color drained from her face.
“Rebecca,” I whispered.
She shook her head.
“Vivian, please…”
“What child?”
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Please let me explain.”
I felt the room spinning.
“You told me Eleanor stole you. You told me Julian was your twin brother. You told me you were trying to protect my son.”
“I am!”
“Then why is someone telling me you delivered a child four years ago?”
Rebecca covered her mouth.
Dr. Whitmore stepped forward.
“Rebecca?”
She began sobbing.
And then she whispered something that made every person in the room go silent.
“Because I did.”
My heart stopped.
“You had a baby?”
She nodded.
“Four years ago.”
I stared at her.
“The night of my accident?”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
I could barely breathe.
“Rebecca… whose baby was it?”
She looked at me.
Then at my newborn son.
And finally whispered:
“I don’t know who the father was. Eleanor controlled the records, and I was told my baby had died.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
Rebecca was shaking violently.
“She told me my daughter didn’t survive. But six months ago, I found evidence that she had been transferred to another facility.”
My chest tightened.
“Where?”
Rebecca reached into her pocket.
She removed a folded piece of paper.
A transfer receipt.
I looked at the name printed at the top.
HOLLOW CREEK RESIDENTIAL CARE.
My stomach dropped.
The same facility Julian had paid $75,000.
The same name in my financial records.
The same place connected to the note:
V.V. — CASE CLOSED.
I looked up.
“Rebecca, why would Julian pay that facility?”
She stared at me.
“I don’t know.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
But before she could explain, Officer Daniels returned.
His expression was grim.
“Mrs. Vance, I need you to remain calm.”
My heart began pounding.
“What happened?”
He looked at Rebecca.
Then at Dr. Whitmore.
“We just received a report from the Vance estate.”
I felt sick.
“What report?”
“A man was found unconscious inside the mansion.”
My breath caught.
“Julian?”
Daniels hesitated.
“The identification found on him says Julian Vance.”
Rebecca gasped.
“Is he alive?”
“He’s being transported to the emergency department.”
I pressed my hand against my chest.
“Thank God.”
But Officer Daniels wasn’t finished.
“There’s something else.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
He glanced at the document in my hands.
“The man was found in a locked basement room. Police also discovered what appears to be a collection of old medical records.”
My pulse raced.
“What kind of records?”
The officer’s expression darkened.
“Birth certificates. Adoption documents. Genetic testing reports.”
Rebecca covered her mouth.
“And photographs,” he continued.
I stared at him.
“Photographs of what?”
He hesitated.
Then said:
“Children.”
The room went silent.
“How many?” I whispered.
Officer Daniels looked directly at me.
“At least seventeen.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Seventeen children.
Seventeen lives.
How many families had Eleanor destroyed?
How many babies had disappeared?
How many mothers had been told their children were dead?
I looked at my newborn son.
Then at Rebecca.
And for the first time, I realized we might be uncovering something far larger than one family’s inheritance scheme.
But before I could speak, my phone vibrated again.
Another message.
This time, it came from Julian’s number.
JULIAN: VIVIAN, IF YOU’RE READING THIS, I MAY NOT BE ABLE TO EXPLAIN EVERYTHING MYSELF.
My hands began trembling.
JULIAN: I FOUND THE ORIGINAL E-27 FILE.
I stared at the screen.
Another message appeared.
JULIAN: REBECCA WASN’T THE THIRD CHILD.
I looked up.
Rebecca was watching me.
I swallowed.
Then the final message arrived.
JULIAN: AND THE WOMAN YOU KNOW AS ELEANOR VANCE IS NOT OUR BIOLOGICAL GRANDMOTHER.
I stopped breathing.
A second later, an image attachment appeared.
It was a scanned birth certificate.
The mother’s name had been partially blacked out.
But the father’s name was perfectly visible.
NATHANIEL VANCE.
And beneath it, in the space marked CHILD’S NAME, were two words that made my entire world collapse.
VIVIAN MERCER.
I stared at the screen.
No.
No, that couldn’t be right.
My name was Vivian.
My maiden name was Mercer.
But my parents had always told me I was their biological daughter.
I looked at Rebecca.
She was crying.
I looked at Dr. Whitmore.
He seemed unable to speak.
Then I looked at the document again.
The date of birth matched mine.
The father’s name was Nathaniel Vance.
And the mother’s name, beneath the blacked-out section, had one visible word.
CAROLINE.
I felt the room tilt.
My knees went weak even though I was sitting down.
Because if that document was genuine…
Nathaniel and Caroline weren’t simply Julian and Rebecca’s parents.
They might be mine too.
And that meant the man I had married…
The father of my newborn son…
Might be my own biological brother.
I looked down at my baby.
My beautiful, innocent son.
Then I heard Rebecca whisper something that made my blood run cold.
“Vivian, before you believe that certificate, there’s something you need to know.”
I turned toward her.
Her face was wet with tears.
“Eleanor has been forging birth records for twenty-seven years.”
I stared at her.
“Then whose child am I?”
Rebecca slowly shook her head.
“That’s exactly what she never wanted you to find out.”
And at that moment, a new message appeared on my phone.
Not from Julian.
Not from Nathaniel.
Not from Caroline.
It came from an unknown number.
THE CERTIFICATE IS A TRAP.
IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO YOUR REAL MOTHER IS, ASK DR. WHITMORE WHAT HAPPENED IN DELIVERY ROOM THREE ON NOVEMBER 14, 1988.
I looked up.
Dr. Whitmore was staring at my phone.
His face had turned completely white.
Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he said:
“I was there that night.”
