I Raised His Mistress’s Son for Ten Years

Victor set his briefcase by the door. I held out a crystal glass of scotch.

"I was wrong," I told him, keeping my voice perfectly level.

He paused. His eyes searched my face for a trap.

"About what?" he asked carefully.

"The file," I said, forcing a small, apologetic smile. "I let the anniversary planning and work stress get to me. I overreacted."

His shoulders dropped two inches. The tension bled out of his jaw.

"I told you it was just spam," he said, taking the glass.

"I know. I'm sorry for snapping at you."

He took a long sip, the amber liquid disappearing. "Let's just move past it, El. We have a big dinner tomorrow."

"We will," I promised.

The front door clicked shut the next morning. I walked straight into his study.

I dialed Rachel and put her on speaker, resting the phone on the mahogany desk.

"He's gone," I said, waking up the laptop screen.

"Are you sure about this?" Rachel asked through the tiny speaker.

"Give me the dates," I demanded.

"You tried your anniversary?"

"Failed."

"His birthday?"

"Locked."

"Try Oliver's birthday," Rachel said.

"April eighth, twenty-fourteen," I muttered, typing the numbers.

A red error box popped up.

"Nothing," I said. "He didn't use his own son's birthday."

"Try your anniversary again. Maybe you typed it wrong."

"June fourteenth, twenty-thirteen. Still locked."

"Okay," Rachel murmured. "I have one more option. Serena's birth date."

"His secretary?"

"Just try it. February eighteenth, eighty-two."

My fingers hovered over the keys. I typed zero-two-one-eight-eight-two.

The screen went black for a fraction of a second. The desktop loaded.

"It opened," I whispered.

"Are you kidding me?" Rachel asked.

"He used her birthday," I said, my chest tightening. "For ten years, I've lived in this house, and he locked his secrets behind her birth date."

"That's colder than finding them in bed together," Rachel noted.

"Much colder. Now, let's see what he's hiding."

I double-clicked the hidden folder. A grid of thumbnails populated the screen.

"It's a high school prom," I said, clicking the first image. "He's wearing a cheap tuxedo. She's in a pink dress."

"They go back that far? He told you they met at the firm."

"He lied." I clicked the next image. "A college dorm. They're hugging on a twin bed."

"Keep going."

"Hotel receipts," I read, scanning the digital invoices. "October. November. December."

"During your third trimester."

"He was booking suites at the Plaza while I was decorating the nursery."

"What else is in there?"

"Bank records. Multiple wire transfers to Clara Jenkins."

"The hospital transport nurse. He paid her off."

"Wait," I said, spotting a plain text document. "There's an email chain."

I opened the file. The words blurred for a second before coming into focus.

"Rachel," I said, my throat going dry.

"Read it to me."

"It's from Serena. Sent the night before I gave birth. 'After tonight, your son gets the life he deserves. Mine won't grow up poor.'"

Silence stretched across the phone line.

"And Victor?" Rachel finally asked.

"He replied with two words," I said. "'Delete this.'"

"My god. It wasn't a hospital error."

"They planned it," I said, grabbing the edge of the desk. "They swapped the babies on purpose. He gave my child to her."

"Destroy the laptop," she ordered. "Wipe it."

"No," I replied, pulling a silver flash drive from my pocket. "I'm copying the whole drive. Tell Marcus to prep his digital forensics team. We keep the original evidence exactly as it is."

Victor returned from his Chicago trip at eight o'clock that night. He dropped his garment bag on the foyer rug.

A strong scent of jasmine and vanilla drifted off his suit jacket. I recognized it immediately. Serena wore it to our company Christmas party every year.

"How did Oliver do on his math test?" he asked, walking into the dining room.

I sat at the head of the table. I didn't look up.

"He got a B," I answered.

"He needs a tutor," Victor sighed, loosening his tie. "I'll call the agency tomorrow morning."

He stopped halfway across the room. His eyes locked onto the table.

I had laid out the glossy eight-by-ten photographs. Five images of him pressing Serena against the concrete pillar at JFK.

He didn't reach for the pictures. He didn't ask who the blonde woman was.

"You had me followed?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

A short, sharp laugh escaped my throat.

"That's what you're worried about?" I asked, standing up.

"It's an invasion of privacy, Eleanor," he snapped, pointing a finger at me. "You hired a private investigator?"

"Explain the photos, Victor."

"It's an affair," he said, running a hand through his hair. "It meant nothing. It's just sex."

"Just sex," I repeated. "Since high school?"

His hand froze in his hair.

"Explain the fifty thousand dollars you wired to Clara Jenkins," I demanded.

The remaining color drained from his face. His skin turned the shade of old parchment.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered.

"Explain the email," I pushed, rounding the table to stand in front of him. "The one where Serena says her son won't grow up poor."

"You hacked my computer?"

"You swapped my baby!" I shouted.

"Keep your voice down!" he hissed, glancing toward the stairs. "Oliver is asleep."

"Oliver isn't mine," I stated.

"He is your son," Victor insisted, grabbing my wrists.

I yanked my arms free. "Don't touch me."

"It's just a stupid mistake," he pleaded, his eyes wide and frantic. "I'll end it. I'll fire her tomorrow. Just let it go."

"Let it go?"

"Don't destroy our family over your paranoia," he warned, his tone shifting from desperate to cold.

I stepped right into his space, forcing him to look me in the eye.

"You destroyed it ten years ago," I told him. "I'm just finding the bodies."

His jaw clenched. He stared at me for three long seconds, his chest heaving.

He spun around, grabbed his car keys off the counter, and marched out the front door. The heavy wood slammed shut, rattling the picture frames in the hall.

I stood alone in the quiet house. The silence pressed against my ears.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out.

A new email notification lit up the screen. The sender was the private DNA lab.

*Subject: Expedited Results - Case #8492 (Leo).*

My thumb hovered over the blue link that read *View Results*.

I just needed to press it. I just needed to know if the boy with the frayed shoes was the child I carried for nine months.

My hand shook. I stared at the glowing pixels, unable to push the button.