Yates finally broke when Prescott discovered deleted emails on an old hospital server, admitting that someone had paid him seven years earlier to remove Genevieve’s warning from the twins’ files and ensure that any future symptoms would be treated through conventional protocols first.
He insisted he never expected the children to become sick, saying he had accepted money to bury what seemed like an irrelevant genetic report, but his excuses ended when I asked who had paid him and he whispered a name I could barely understand.
“Your brother, Malcolm.”
Malcolm Mercer was twelve years older than me, the man who taught me to drive, stood beside me at my wedding, carried Jonah after his birth, comforted me after Genevieve’s funeral, and visited the twins almost every day during their illness.
The truth surfaced piece by piece that evening, and each discovery was worse than the last, because Genevieve had realized Malcolm was quietly manipulating family trusts and redirecting money belonging to my children, transactions that would eventually make him wealthy if Jonah and Blythe died.
Genevieve had confronted him shortly before the highway collision, telling him she had copied everything and intended to expose him, while Elena revealed that Genevieve had given her the necklace as proof of identity and ordered her to stay hidden unless something happened.
