Chapter 7 - The Brother's Secret
Ethan stared at the monitor in absolute, paralyzing disbelief.
Julian Caldwell was supposed to be dead.
He had reportedly died in a boating accident off the coast of Maine a decade ago.
Yet there he was, standing over Noah with a surgical mask covering half his face.
“Julian?” Ethan choked out, the paralytic drugs making his speech slur.
Margaret smiled a thin, cruel smile.
“Your brother never died, Ethan.”
“He simply contracted a very rare, entirely fatal genetic disease.”
Margaret walked over to a stainless steel counter and began preparing a large IV bag.
“Julian’s organs began failing one by one.”
“He needed a perfect genetic match to survive a complete cellular transplant.”
“But you weren't a match, Ethan.”
“Neither were your parents.”
Ethan’s mind raced as the horrifying pieces finally fell into place.
“You used Eleanor,” Ethan whispered, hot tears tracking down his temples.
“You murdered my wife.”
“Eleanor was an incredible woman,” Margaret replied without an ounce of remorse.
“But her primary purpose was simply to breed the perfect donor for Julian.”
“Once Noah was born and his DNA was confirmed as a match, Eleanor was no longer required.”
Ethan strained against the leather straps until his wrists bled.
“Why wait seven years?” he demanded furiously.
“Why paralyze him?”
Margaret attached the IV tube to a large needle.
“Julian’s body needed time to prepare for the aggressive transplant procedure.”
“And Noah’s organs needed to grow to a viable size without the taint of physical trauma.”
“Dr. Vance’s paralytics kept the boy pristine.”
Margaret stepped toward Ethan with the needle.
“And now, your part in this grand tragedy is officially over.”
She raised the needle toward Ethan’s neck.
Suddenly, the heavy steel door of the medical room blew off its hinges with a deafening roar.
Smoke and concrete dust flooded the sterile room.
Claire burst through the debris, wielding a heavy fire axe she had pulled from the basement wall.
She didn't hesitate for a single second.
She swung the blunt end of the axe directly into Margaret’s chest.
The older woman collapsed to the floor, gasping for air as her ribs cracked.
Claire dropped the axe and rushed to the operating table.
She frantically sliced through Ethan’s leather restraints with a surgical scalpel.
“Can you walk?” Claire demanded, hauling him upright.
Ethan’s legs wobbled dangerously, but pure adrenaline flooded his system.
“I have to get my son,” Ethan growled, his vision swimming.
They stumbled out into the underground hallway, heading straight for the surgical suite.
They kicked the double doors open, expecting a fight.
But Julian was not holding the scalpel anymore.
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Julian was lying on the floor in a pool of dark blood, perfectly still.
And standing over the body, holding a bloody fire extinguisher, was seven-year-old Noah.
