Chapter 3 - THE FOUNDATION WITH MY NAME ON IT
By seven the next morning, I had not slept.
Neither had Mara.
She sat across from me in a hospital conference room drinking terrible coffee.
“You look awful,” she said.
“You're very comforting.”
“You look like you're planning someone's funeral.”
“I might be.”
She stared at me.
“No.”
I lifted my eyes.
“No what?”
“No solving this the way you solve your other problems.”
“You know nothing about how I solve problems.”
“I know your reputation.”
“My reputation kept my children alive from human threats.”
“And now it could destroy evidence, scare witnesses and turn a medical investigation into a circus.”
I hated her logic.
Mostly because it was correct.
I leaned back.
“Why do you care?”
“About evidence?”
“About any of this.”
She looked down at her paper cup.
“My younger brother died of leukemia when I was nineteen.”
That changed the room.
“I’m sorry.”
“He needed a donor.”
“Did he find one?”
“Too late.”
The phrase sat between us.
She continued.
“I joined the donor registry afterward. Then I went into transplant research because I thought if I understood the system, maybe I could help somebody else's family avoid what happened to mine.”
“And Yates fired you.”
“Yes.”
“What happened after?”
“No recommendation.”
“From anyone?”
“He made sure of it.”
“You could have found another job.”
“I tried.”
“Then?”
“My mother got sick.”
“You said you had no relatives.”
“I don't anymore.”
Her mother died four months earlier.
Medical bills.
Lost income.
Eviction.
By the time Odette posted online looking for temporary help at the estate, Mara had spent three nights sleeping at a women's shelter.
“You applied as a caregiver just to get through my gates?”
“Yes.”
“Manipulative.”
“Yes.”
“Dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“You could have sent the folder.”
“I did.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“To whom?”
“Mercer Children's Foundation.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Who received it?”
“I don't know.”
“Did anyone respond?”
“One email.”
She pulled out her phone.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONCERN. THE MEDICAL TEAM IS AWARE OF ALL CLINICALLY RELEVANT OPTIONS. PLEASE DO NOT CONTACT THE FAMILY DIRECTLY.
Signed:
**SEBASTIAN MERCER
Executive Director, Mercer Children's Foundation**
My younger half-brother.
I stared at the name.
Sebastian was thirty-seven.
Educated at Wharton.
Beautiful suits.
Perfect manners.
Unlike me, he had never wanted anything to do with the violent parts of the Mercer world.
He ran the foundation because Genevieve believed one person in our family should do something that did not require armed security.
After she died, Sebastian became even more involved.
He attended Jonah and Blythe's treatment meetings when I couldn't.
He handled donations.
Research agreements.
Hospital partnerships.
He had sat beside me two weeks earlier and told me:
“Franklin says we're almost out of options.”
My hands closed into fists.
Mara watched.
“Don't.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Because you keep looking like homicide is a scheduling issue.”
I stood.
She stood too.
“You don't know what Sebastian is to me.”
“No.”
“He's my brother.”
“Then find out whether he failed you before you decide how to punish him.”
I looked at her.
“You really think I'm that unreasonable?”
She waited.
“Don't answer.”
Prescott entered carrying a laptop.
“We have foundation records.”
I sat.
“Talk.”
Mercer Children's Foundation had donated thirty-two million dollars to pediatric cancer research over six years.
Nearly eleven million went to projects associated with Franklin Yates.
Nexaris alone received 4.6 million.
“What does Sebastian get?”
Prescott frowned.
“Nothing directly.”
“Keep looking.”
A financial analyst found it by noon.
A venture fund called Northstar Biomedical Partners owned shares in the biotech company developing Nexaris.
One of Northstar's limited partners was a trust.
Beneficiary:
Sebastian Mercer.
The room became very quiet.
“How much is his stake worth?”
“Currently? Maybe four million.”
“And if Nexaris succeeds?”
“Potentially much more.”
Mara closed her eyes.
“Conflict of interest.”
Prescott nodded.
“Undisclosed.”
My brother had been financially benefiting from a treatment program funded by my foundation.
And children whose donor searches disappeared had been enrolled in that program.
Including mine.
I called him.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Prescott checked his location.
“His phone is off.”
“Home?”
“Security says he left before dawn.”
“Where?”
“No one knows.”
I stood.
Mara said:
“Lawson.”
“I know.”
“No threatening.”
“I know.”
“Police.”
I turned.
“I said I know.”
She nodded.
Progress.
At 1:00 p.m., Dr. Rao convened the transplant team.
Mara's compatibility was better than expected.
Not perfect.
But significant enough that they believed donation could be considered.
I stopped hearing after the word considered.
“Then do it.”
Dr. Rao's expression remained serious.
“We need both children stabilized enough.”
“How long?”
“Blythe's infection is responding slightly.”
“And Jonah?”
“Still fragile.”
“How long?”
“Forty-eight hours will tell us more.”
I stared at her.
“We don't have forty-eight hours.”
“We don't get to manufacture physiology because the clock scares us.”
Mara sat beside me.
She did not touch me.
I was grateful.
If she had, I might have broken.
That afternoon, I visited the twins.
Blythe wore a mask.
Jonah looked smaller than the pillow.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Did Mara pass her test?”
I sat between their beds.
“So far.”
Blythe smiled weakly.
“I told you she was magic.”
“No magic.”
Mara spoke from the doorway.
Blythe looked disappointed.
“Why not?”
“Because if this works, doctors did science and your bodies did hard work.”
Jonah frowned.
“That's less fun.”
Mara smiled.
“Sorry.”
Blythe reached toward her.
“Come.”
Mara sat.
The twins liked her.
Not because she was their potential donor.
Because she didn't talk to them like sick children.
She asked about cartoons.
Complained about hospital pudding.
Let Jonah beat her at a card game even though I was fairly certain she cheated on his behalf.
At six that evening, Prescott called me out.
“We found Sebastian.”
“Where?”
“O'Hare.”
“Leaving?”
“He booked a flight to Zurich.”
My face hardened.
“Did he board?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Federal agents stopped him.”
I looked at Prescott.
“You called them?”
“Yes.”
Old me would have been furious.
New me was surprised by my own relief.
“What did he have?”
“Two laptops. Financial records.”
“Anything else?”
Prescott hesitated.
“Cash.”
“How much?”
“Eighty thousand.”
Mara appeared behind me.
She had heard.
“What did he say?”
Prescott looked at me.
“He says he wasn't running.”
“Of course.”
“He says he was going to meet investors.”
“Of course.”
Then Prescott's expression changed.
“He also says Dr. Yates is lying.”
“About?”
“Everything.”
I frowned.
“Meaning?”
“Sebastian claims Yates told him the donor matches were medically unusable.”
Mara went still.
“He knew the searches were being closed?”
“Yes.”
“But says he believed there were legitimate reasons.”
“And the financial interest?”
“He admits that.”
My anger returned.
“Convenient.”
Prescott continued.
“There's more.”
I waited.
“Sebastian says Genevieve knew.”
That stopped me.
“Knew what?”
“About Northstar.”
“No.”
“He says she helped establish the investment before she died.”
I felt physically cold.
“Genevieve hated conflicts of interest.”
“He says it wasn't a conflict originally.”
“What was it?”
“A way to fund pediatric research without using Mercer money directly.”
Mara looked confused.
Prescott continued:
“Sebastian says after Genevieve died, Yates changed the structure.”
My wife had been dead two years.
Yet once again, a secret with her name on it had entered the room.
“Where is Sebastian now?”
“Federal interview.”
“I want to see him.”
“Later.”
Mara spoke softly.
“Lawson.”
I looked at her.
She pointed through the glass.
Jonah's monitor alarm had started.
Nurses rushed into his room.
Everything else vanished.
I ran.
Dr. Rao intercepted me at the door.
“What happened?”
“His blood pressure dropped.”
“Fix it.”
“We are.”
“Fix it!”
My voice shook the hallway.
Everyone stopped.
Then Mara grabbed my sleeve.
Not my arm.
My sleeve.
Just enough.
“Don't make them afraid of you while they're trying to save him.”
I looked through the glass.
Doctors.
Nurses.
People moving quickly.
No guns.
No threats.
No loyalty oath.
Only skill.
I forced myself to step back.
Jonah's pressure stabilized twenty-three minutes later.
I sank into a chair.
Mara sat beside me.
Neither of us spoke.
Eventually I whispered:
“I don't know how to do this.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She looked at me.
“I don't know how to sit while other people decide whether my son lives.”
Her voice softened.
“That's not nothing.”
“It feels like it.”
“You're staying.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“Your children wake up and you're here.”
She nodded toward the room.
“You think because you aren't solving the medical problem, you're doing nothing.”
She looked at me.
“But they're six.”
“Being here is the job.”
Genevieve used to tell me something similar.
I never listened enough.
That night, Jonah opened his eyes.
“Dad?”
“I'm here.”
He smiled faintly.
“You always say that.”
I held his hand.
“Get used to it.”
Then Dr. Rao entered.
She looked exhausted.
But for the first time, she smiled.
“Blythe's infection markers are improving.”
I stood.
“And Jonah?”
“Stable enough that the team is willing to prepare both children for a potential transplant pathway.”
My heart stopped.
“Say that again.”
“We're moving forward.”
I covered my face.
For the first time in twenty years, I cried in front of strangers.
Mara looked away to give me privacy.
Blythe saw anyway.
“Daddy?”
I lowered my hands.
“Why are you crying?”
I went to her.
“Because we got some good news.”
She smiled.
“Did we get more days?”
I kissed her forehead.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
I looked at Dr. Rao.
She said nothing.
So I told the truth.
“We don't know yet.”
Blythe thought about it.
Then smiled.
“More than ten?”
I held her hand.
May you like
“We're going to fight for every one.”
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