accessed the hospital’s oncology server last night.”
“When?”
“Twenty three minutes after Yates uploaded Elena’s genetic profile.”
“From where?”
“Internal network.”
“Who has access?”
“Too many people.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“Increase security around the twins.”
“Already done.”
“Elena too.”
He hesitated.
“Lawson.”
“What?”
“I checked Genevieve’s crash again.”
My body went still.
“The original investigating officer died eight months afterward.
Heart attack.
Forty six years old.”
“Coincidence.”
“Maybe.”
“The coroner?”
“Retired six weeks after the crash.”
“Where is he?”
“Missing.”
I looked at Prescott.
“When were you planning to tell me?”
“I learned it twenty minutes ago.”
“Find him.”
He nodded.
That afternoon, one of the Boston teams confirmed the mutation.
By evening, Zurich confirmed it independently.
Dr.
Yates called me into a consultation room.
“Elena was right.”
I sat down.
He placed the results in front of me.
“The twins’ leukemia cells express an altered receptor we’ve
