Chapter 6 - The Ultrasound Deception
By noon, the house was heavily guarded.
Detective Briggs, a burly, graying investigator from the Financial Crimes Unit, sat at my dining room table with two fresh cups of black coffee. Outside, an unmarked cruiser remained parked down the street, keeping an eye on the property. Karen Diaz had arrived thirty minutes earlier to officially ratify the temporary protective order granting me sole emergency custody pending a formal dependency hearing.
"The IP address that filed that bogus kidnapping petition originated from a prepaid hotspot registered under a fake name," Detective Briggs said, sliding an incident folder toward Marcus. "It was pinged off a cellular tower near Route 40, out by the old industrial corridor on the east side."
"The motel strip," Marcus remarked. "The Starlight Motor Inn and the Buckeye Budget Suites. Classic cash-only, no-questions-asked operations."
"We’ve got units canvassing the parking lots," Briggs said. "If Derek’s black Silverado is parked out there, we’ll spot it. But here’s the interesting part, Claire."
Briggs reached into his briefcase and produced a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was a crumpled white envelope that the patrol officers had found in Megan’s apartment during the initial search.
"This was recovered from the bottom of your sister's laundry basket," Briggs said. "It’s from the Central Ohio Women’s Health Clinic."
My stomach tightened. "The pregnancy test. The ultrasound."
"Take a look," Briggs said, sliding the bag across the wood.
I looked through the clear plastic. Inside was an ultrasound printout showing a faint, peanut-sized gestational sac, dated three weeks ago. Across the top was the clinic’s header and a patient name: *Megan Montgomery*.
"She showed me a photo of this on her phone last night," I said, remembering the sickening grin on her face when she announced child number five. "She used this to tell me I was heartless for walking away."
Marcus leaned forward, pulling out a magnifying glass from his briefcase. He squinted at the paper for several seconds, then tapped the bottom edge.
"Briggs, did you call the clinic to verify the record?" Marcus asked.
"I did," Briggs replied, a sharp, humorless grin touching his lips. "The clinic has never heard of Megan Montgomery. They don't use this serial numbering system, and their ultrasound technician’s initials don't match anyone on staff."
I blinked in astonishment. "What are you saying?"
"It’s an online template," Marcus explained, tossing the magnifying glass onto the table. "You can buy them on novelty websites for fifteen dollars. You upload whatever name you want, pick the gestational week, and print it on thermal paper. It’s a classic grift."
"Why?" I gasped, the sheer magnitude of the deceit making my head spin. "Why lie about being pregnant? What could she possibly gain from that?"
Marcus shook his head. "Psychological leverage, Claire. Megan knew you were reaching your limit. She knew that after twelve years of handling her disasters, you were finally ready to cut the cord. If she told you she was just having another rough month, you would have told her to figure it out. But a pregnant sister? A baby facing homelessness? Derek knew your conscience was your weakest flank. He coached her to use the fake pregnancy to push you into an emotional corner where you would either take the existing four children willingly or feel so overwhelmingly guilty that you wouldn't question the sudden legal transfer."
"And there's money involved," Briggs added. "We checked Megan’s banking records this morning. Two weeks ago, she launched a GoFundMe campaign titled: *Single Mother Expecting Fifth Child Faces Homelessness After Partner’s Death.* She’s already pulled down eleven thousand dollars from unsuspecting church groups and community boards in Pennsylvania."
I buried my face in my hands. The nausea was overwhelming.
My own sister had commodified her children, fabricated an unborn life, and exploited every ounce of charity and family loyalty I possessed—all to bankroll a criminal who viewed her as nothing more than a disposable accomplice.
"Aunt Claire?"
I looked up. Noah was standing at the entrance of the dining room, holding an old leather-bound sketchpad he had found in the hallway bookshelf.
"Noah, honey, what is it?" I asked, wiping my eyes quickly.
The eight-year-old walked forward hesitantly, glancing at Detective Briggs’s badge before looking at me.
"Mom told Derek that he couldn't leave his boat at the lake house because the water was frozen," Noah whispered.
Marcus and Briggs both straightened up simultaneously.
"What lake house, Noah?" Marcus asked gently, leaning down to meet the boy's eye level.
"The house with the green roof," Noah said, his small fingers tracing the edge of his sketchpad. "Derek took us there once three weeks ago. He said it belonged to his old friend who died. There's a big red barn behind it, and a dock with broken boards. Mom was mad because there was no internet, but Derek had big boxes of paper in the kitchen."
Marcus turned to Briggs, his eyes burning with sudden clarity. "The cabin on Buckeye Lake. My brother owned a hunting property out there before he passed away two years ago. The title has been tied up in probate. Derek broke into it after his parole release."
Briggs stood up, buckling his holster. "A secluded property with no immediate neighbors and no digital footprint. If they aren't at the motel strip, they’re out at the lake."
"I’m coming with you," I said, standing up immediately.
"Claire, absolutely not," Marcus warned. "Derek is armed, desperate, and erratic."
May you like
"Megan is my sister," I said, my voice steady, carrying a resolve I hadn't felt in years. "And those four children in the other room need this nightmare finished today. I need to look her in the eye when the cuffs go on."
***
