winter storm.
That was what the police report said.
What the coroner said.
What my people confirmed.
The vehicle had rolled down an embankment and burned.
There had been almost nothing recognizable afterward.
I had identified her through dental records and the serial number on her wedding ring.
I had buried a closed coffin.
Elena reached inside her coat again.
This time, Prescott removed a folded envelope from her before allowing her to touch it.
He placed it on my desk.
Inside was a medical report.
I saw Jonah’s name first.
Then Blythe’s.
The document was dated seven years earlier.
One year before they were born.
I looked up.
“What is this?”
Elena’s voice trembled.
“The reason their treatment isn’t working.”
I read the first page.
Genetic screening.
Embryonic cell compatibility.
Marrow markers.
Several terms I understood.
Others I didn’t.
Then I saw a phrase repeated three times.
Congenital receptor
