Chapter 12 - Project Winter
Project Winter began as legitimate research.
Daniel Mercer had wanted to treat rare inherited diseases affecting isolated Montana families.
Then Patrick Mercer saw money.
Patrick Callahan saw leverage.
Doctors saw opportunity.
Families became datasets.
Consent became inconvenient.
Daniel tried stopping it.
Too late.
Sophie had been flagged because prenatal screening suggested she carried markers relevant to several therapies.
But the scheduled procedure wasn't surgery.
It was blood collection.
Still unauthorized.
Still unacceptable.
Why seventy-two hours?
A specific neonatal marker changed rapidly after birth.
Patrick Mercer needed the sample before it disappeared.
That gave us a deadline.
It also gave us leverage.
He couldn't harm Sophie.
He needed her healthy.
Vincent suggested we use that.
I refused to put her anywhere near him.
So we created a fake medical report showing samples had already been collected.
Patrick Mercer reacted within twelve minutes.
He called.
“Where is the blood?”
Vincent smiled.
Finally, we had made him afraid.
“Safe.”
“Bring it.”
“Release Patrick Callahan.”
Silence.
Then my uncle laughed.
“You think Vincent wants his father?”
Vincent's smile vanished.
Patrick continued:
“Ask him.”
I looked at Vincent.
He didn't answer.
He wanted answers, not reunion.
Patrick Mercer knew.
“Fine,” Vincent said. “Release every patient in the facility.”
“Impossible.”
“Then no sample.”
We negotiated.
Not because we intended to trade.
Because federal agents were tracing the call.
Location confirmed.
The ski resort.
Raid authorized.
This time, Vincent stayed with me.
He chose not to go.
That surprised everyone.
“Why?”
He looked at Sophie.
“Because every man in my family keeps running toward power and calling it duty.”
Then at me.
“Someone should stay with the child.”
So we waited.
Two hours.
Then Nora called.
Facility secured.
Patients rescued.
Doctors arrested.
Patrick Mercer—
Missing.
Patrick Callahan—
Found.
Alive.
Vincent closed his eyes.
Then Nora said:
“There’s another person here.”
“Who?”
“A woman.”
My stomach tightened.
“Name?”
“She says she's Margaret Mercer.”
I nearly dropped Sophie.
“My mother is dead.”
The woman insisted otherwise.
We drove to the hospital.
She sat behind glass.
Older.
Scarred.
But she looked like my mother.
I knew the curve of her mouth.
The way she folded her hands.
“Claire.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Mom?”
She cried.
I didn't move.
Not yet.
DNA testing was ordered immediately.
Hours later:
Maternal relationship confirmed.
My mother was alive.
The woman buried four years after my father's death hadn't been Margaret.
“Why?”
She told me.
After Daniel died, Patrick Mercer hunted her.
Eleanor helped stage Margaret's death.
Then separated us.
I had been nineteen.
Old enough to choose.
Nobody gave me the choice.
“I thought you died.”
“I know.”
“Did you ever watch me?”
Her silence broke something.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“Every year.”
I stood.
“Then you watched me marry Evan.”
Her face changed.
“No.”
“You knew Michael.”
“I didn't know Evan was Michael.”
Same excuse.
Different person.
Then Margaret saw Sophie.
Her face went completely white.
Not joy.
Fear.
“Where did she get that blanket?”
I looked down.
The blanket from Vincent's travel bag.
“Why?”
Margaret reached through the slot beneath the glass.
“Take it off her.”
“Mom—”
“NOW!”
I removed it.
Sewn inside the hem was a tiny medical patch.
A microneedle sensor.
Someone had been collecting Sophie's biological data since minutes after birth.
Vincent stared.
“My mother packed that bag.”
Margaret shook her head.
“No.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I did.”
Silence.
Margaret looked at Vincent.
“I packed the bag.”
May you like
Then at me.
“And I sent you to the cabin.”
