Chapter 2 - ROMAN’S CHILDREN
Pamela arrived at the Voss estate at eleven the next morning.
Not because Roman ordered her.
Because she had not slept.
The estate sat north of the city behind iron gates, cameras and enough security to invade a small country.
Donovan met her outside.
“No phone surrender?”
Pamela asked.
His eyebrow lifted.
“Should there be?”
“I don’t know. Mafia house.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
“Mr. Voss dislikes that word.”
“Does he prefer organized-crime enthusiast?”
Donovan actually laughed.
Pamela immediately liked him more than was sensible.
Roman waited in a sunroom.
The triplets were playing on a padded mat.
Pamela stopped in the doorway.
Everything else disappeared.
Three children.
Two boys.
One girl.
Theo sat banging wooden blocks together.
Eli tried stealing one.
Mia held the same plush bear Pamela had picked up the previous night.
Pamela’s chest tightened until breathing hurt.
Mia looked up.
Saw her.
Her entire face brightened.
“Mama.”
Pamela gripped the doorframe.
Roman watched.
He looked exhausted too.
“Sit.”
Pamela shook her head.
“Please.”
That changed it.
She sat.
Roman placed a folder on the coffee table.
“My wife and I began an adoption process almost three years ago.”
Pamela looked at him.
“Wife?”
“Celeste.”
His expression closed slightly.
“She had ovarian cancer.”
Pamela said nothing.
“We knew children biologically related to both of us were unlikely.”
Celeste and Roman completed background checks, home studies and private adoption screening.
Then Celeste died.
Eight months later, Roman remained approved as a single adoptive parent.
“I almost withdrew.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Roman looked toward the babies.
“Celeste made me promise not to.”
His attorney, Julian Kane, later called with an emergency placement.
Triplets.
Premature but healthy.
Birth mother supposedly wished to remain anonymous.
Voluntary surrender.
Closed adoption.
Roman paid enormous legal and medical fees.
“How enormous?”
His eyes sharpened.
“Why?”
“Just answer.”
“Seven hundred eighty thousand.”
Pamela nearly laughed.
“What?”
“Some was neonatal care.”
“My hospital bills are still being sent to collections.”
Roman stopped.
“What?”
“I owe St. Anselm eighty-four thousand dollars.”
Silence.
Same delivery.
Two sets of charges.
One to a grieving mother.
One to a wealthy adoptive parent.
Roman opened the file.
Birth date.
Pamela stopped breathing.
Same date.
Hospital:
St. Anselm.
“They were born at St. Anselm?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
Roman told her.
Twenty-three minutes after Pamela’s emergency cesarean began.
Her hands shook.
“No.”
Roman said quietly:
“I’m not asking you to believe anything yet.”
“Good.”
She stood.
“Because those children died.”
Roman looked at her.
“Did you see them?”
The question hurt.
“No.”
“Did anyone you trust see them?”
“No.”
“Were you conscious?”
“No.”
Pamela’s eyes filled.
“Don't do this.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“You get to understand.”
Her voice broke.
“I had to survive it.”
Roman stopped.
Good.
He deserved that.
Pamela moved toward the door.
Then Theo crawled toward her.
Slow.
Determined.
He reached her shoes.
Looked up.
“Mom.”
Pamela began crying.
She crouched instinctively.
Did not touch him.
Roman noticed.
“You can.”
“No.”
“What?”
“They’re your children.”
The words hurt both of them.
Roman looked at Theo.
Then Pamela.
“I don’t know that anymore.”
Silence.
Pamela finally let Theo grab one finger.
His tiny hand closed around it.
Something inside her tore open.
Donovan entered.
“Boss.”
He held another folder.
Roman read.
His expression changed.
“What?”
Donovan looked at Pamela.
Then Roman.
“The birth mother named in your adoption paperwork does not exist.”
Pamela went cold.
“What?”
The surrender form identified:
Melissa Grant.
Social Security number belonged to a woman who died eleven years earlier.
Address was a vacant apartment.
Roman stood slowly.
“Who prepared the adoption?”
“Julian Kane.”
Roman’s oldest attorney.
Twenty-two years with the Voss family.
Donovan continued:
“And someone accessed Pamela Hayes’s St. Anselm record three times after discharge.”
“Who?”
“Hospital administrator credentials.”
“Name?”
“Marjorie Trent.”
Pamela knew it.
The woman who had sat beside her hospital bed and explained cremation paperwork.
Her stomach turned.
Roman looked toward the children.
Then at Pamela.
“There’s something else.”
He hesitated.
Pamela snapped:
“Stop protecting me from sentences.”
His expression changed.
Then:
“The triplets’ blood types are compatible with yours.”
She laughed angrily.
“That proves almost nothing.”
“I know.”
Good.
At least he knew.
Roman continued:
“I’m not doing a DNA test behind your back.”
Pamela stared.
That mattered.
“Then what?”
“We investigate the records first.”
“Yes.”
Roman nodded.
“Agreed.”
Pamela looked toward the children.
Mia crawled closer.
“Mama.”
Pamela whispered:
“Why do they know that word?”
Roman became still.
Exactly.
That was impossible too.
He looked at Donovan.
“The nanny.”
Donovan frowned.
“What nanny?”
“Teresa.”
Roman’s face changed.
“She left six weeks ago.”
Pamela asked:
“Why?”
Roman stared at Donovan.
Donovan looked uncomfortable.
“Julian told us she stole jewelry.”
Roman’s voice went cold.
“Did anyone actually see evidence?”
Silence.
That was the answer.
May you like
“Find Teresa Bell.”
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