Chapter 5 - THE LIE ABOUT THE BABY
The bullet struck the metal door inches from Harrison’s head.
Morales returned fire toward the shadows. Footsteps pounded across the dock, then vanished between stacked containers.
Richard dropped to the ground and covered his head.
“Who was that?” Morales demanded.
“I don’t know!”
“You seemed comfortable enough meeting criminals in a burning warehouse.”
Richard’s eyes went to Harrison. “Ask him why he’s so desperate to protect a child that may not be mine.”
Harrison grabbed Richard by the collar.
Morales pulled him back. “Don’t give him an assault charge to hide behind.”
At the hospital, Khloe remained unconscious. Harrison stood outside her room while Richard’s accusation replayed in his mind.
He hated himself for wondering.
Then Dr. Ward handed him an envelope.
“Your sister left instructions with her obstetrician,” she said. “She feared her husband would challenge paternity during the divorce.”
Inside was a prenatal DNA report.
Probability of paternity: Richard Harrington, 99.99 percent.
Harrison almost laughed.
Richard’s lie had lasted less than an hour.
He sent the report to Morales, then returned to the NICU. The baby’s condition had stabilized. A nurse had written “Baby Girl Harrington” on the chart.
Harrison crossed it out.
He wrote “Baby Girl Cole-Harrington.”
“You don’t get erased because your father is a coward,” he whispered.
Nora Pierce was placed under police protection. From her hospital bed, she explained that Richard’s empire had been built on bribed inspectors, fake environmental reports, and construction loans secured through inflated property values.
“Khloe found the financial transfers,” Nora said. “But she didn’t know the worst part.”
“What is the worst part?” Harrison asked.
“The Marlowe Tower collapse.”
Three years earlier, a luxury apartment balcony had failed during a charity event, killing two people. Harrington Commercial blamed a subcontractor.
Nora shook her head. “Richard knew the steel was defective. He paid the city inspector to approve it.”
“Proof?”
“In the penthouse nursery. Vanessa kept copies because she thought they protected her.”
Harrison called his investigators.
The penthouse was already on fire.
By the time he arrived, flames were pouring through the upper windows. Firefighters pushed him back as glass shattered onto the street.
A woman across the road filmed the scene with her phone.
Harrison caught a glimpse of the burning nursery through the windows—cream walls, gold stars, a white crib.
Everything Khloe had wanted.
Built for another woman’s child.
Then a firefighter emerged carrying a steel lockbox.
“We found this inside the crib,” he said.
The box had survived.
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On top was a handwritten note.
HARRISON—IF YOU OPEN THIS, YOUR SISTER WILL LEARN WHAT YOU DID SIX YEARS AGO.
