She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 122

(Nathanial)

I'm not a geneticist.

But I spend my life analyzing risk models, probability, and corporate data.

I know how to read a spreadsheet.

I know what a statistical anomaly looks like.

The St. Jude's logo is printed at the top of the page.

The donor report confirms I'm a viable tissue match for Lily Warren.

That's the good news.

Page four contains the extended genetic markers.

They use the mother's bloodwork to establish a baseline for inheritance.

Natasha's data is in the left column. Mine is in the right. The numbers line up. Too many of them.

I drop the file on my desk.

My sister's death certificate was a forgery.

Someone paid a municipal clerk to make Nat Bailey disappear.

Padilla hit a brick wall because the woman he's looking for has been standing right in front of us for years.

Natasha Kelly.

Why did she change her last name?

I need to speak to the doctor in charge of Lily's care.

Maybe I'm jumping to the wrong conclusions. But now that the thought has lodged in my mind, it refuses to go away, and I can't believe I didn't see it sooner.

Her name is Natasha.

She resembles both my mother and Sonia.

Not so much when her face and body was swollen from the medication, but once that changed, I should have noticed.

The office door is dark.

The plate still reads Dr. Patel, the previous specialist on Lily's case.

I knock anyway.

Nothing.

I turn around and walk back toward the elevators, dodging a cart of fresh linens.

A man in a white coat comes walking around the corner.

He glances up from his tablet and stops dead.

He stares at me.

It isn't a polite, professional assessment. He looks completely rattled, studying my face like he's looking at a ghost.

"Are you Lily Warren’s new doctor?" I ask.

He shifts his grip on the tablet and it takes him a second to find his voice.

"Yes. James. You must be Nathanial Morton."

How on earth could he know that? I don't remember them taking pictures of us when we were tested, but I was deep in the throes of depression, maybe they did.

"I am."

I hold up the St. Jude's envelope.

"I need you to please explain this data to me. I want to understand why my extended genetic markers overlap with Lily Warren's."

James looks at the envelope, then back at my face.

He's still studying my jawline, the shape of my eyes.

It feels intensely personal, and it puts me immediately on edge.

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