Chapter 93 The call came three days later
Clara was in her parents’ living room when her phone vibrated softly against the arm of the sofa. Her mother was in the kitchen, humming absentmindedly, unaware that Clara’s nerves had been stretched thin since the meeting at the coffee shop.
She did not need to check the screen to know who it was.
Still, her pulse quickened when she saw the name.
Daniel Reed.
She rose quietly and stepped outside onto the small balcony. The evening air was cooler than she expected, brushing gently against her skin. For a second, she considered letting it ring longer, as though postponing the truth might soften it.
She answered.
“Hello.”
“Miss Clara,” Daniel’s voice came, calm but different from before. Less neutral. “Are you somewhere you can speak freely?”
“Yes.”
A brief pause. She could almost hear papers shifting on his end.
“I’ve started with the foundation listed on the treatment documents,” he said. “On the surface, it’s legitimate. Registered. Compliant. Minimal public footprint, but not unusual for private medical philanthropy.”
Her fingers tightened around the railing. “And beneath the surface?”
“There are layers.”
Her heartbeat stumbled.
“The foundation receives most of its funding through an international medical trust. That trust is based in the Netherlands.”
Clara blinked. “The Netherlands?”
“Yes. More specifically, Amsterdam.”
The word did not land gently.
Amsterdam.
For a moment she was no longer on the balcony. She was back in that foreign city, where she had intended to get answers.The quiet canals. The clinical precision of the hospital. The private consultation room where everything had first begun to feel both hopeful and strange.
“That can’t be a coincidence,” she whispered.
“I don’t believe in coincidences in financial structures,” Daniel replied evenly. “Not at this scale.”
Clara swallowed. “Does the trust have a name?”
He told her.
It was unfamiliar, polished, deliberately generic. The kind of name that sounded trustworthy because it revealed nothing.
“And there’s more,” he continued. “The private doctor assigned to oversee your partner’s case. Laurent.”
Her breath caught. “What about him?”
“He’s licensed in the UK, but his most recent professional affiliations trace back to a research institute in Amsterdam. He was contracted through an intermediary medical consultancy that operates primarily in that region.”
The chill that spread through her was not from the evening air.
“So the foundation, the trust, and Doctor Laurent all connect to Amsterdam,” she said slowly.
“Yes.”
“And Peter’s original specialist consultation…”
“Also in Amsterdam,” Daniel finished for her.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and thinking.
Clara pressed her free hand to her stomach unconsciously. The baby shifted faintly, as though reacting to the tension winding through her body.
“What does it mean?” she asked quietly.
“It means,” Daniel said carefully, “that the sponsorship is not random. It’s coordinated.”
Her mind raced. Coordinated implied intention. Intention implied purpose.
“But why?” she asked. “Why would an international trust focus on Peter? He’s not a public figure. He doesn’t come from influence. He’s just…”
She stopped herself.
Just what?
Just a man fighting for his life.
“I’m still tracing deeper,” Daniel said. “The trust’s board members are shielded behind corporate directors. That’s not illegal. Just inconvenient. However, I did notice something unusual.”
Clara closed her eyes briefly. “Tell me.”
“The trust significantly increased its medical expenditure allocations six months ago. The same month your partner’s diagnosis became critical.”
Her eyes opened slowly.
“That’s impossible,” she said. “They wouldn’t have known about him before that.”
“Medical networks are smaller than they appear,” Daniel replied. “Particularly when experimental treatments are involved.”
The word experimental hung in the air.
“They told us the treatment was advanced,” she murmured. “Not experimental.”
“Advanced and experimental are separated by paperwork,” he said quietly.
A car horn sounded faintly from the street below. The world continued, unaware that hers was subtly shifting.
“Is this dangerous?” she asked.
“I don’t have evidence of danger,” Daniel said. “Not yet. What I have is a pattern. A financial line that begins in Amsterdam and leads directly to your partner’s care.”
She leaned against the wall now, steadying herself.
“And Doctor Laurent?” she asked. “Is he directly employed by the trust?”
“Not officially. But his consultancy has received substantial funding from the same trust over the past year.”
Clara let out a slow breath.
It was all too neat. Too connected.
Images flickered in her mind. The way Laurent had appeared at just the right time. The way the foundation had insisted on anonymity. The subtle watchfulness she had felt in hospital corridors.
“Do you think,” she began carefully, “that Peter was selected?”
Daniel did not answer immediately.
“It’s a possibility,” he said at last. “Selection implies criteria. I’m trying to determine what that criteria might be.”
Her thoughts drifted unwillingly to the trip to Amsterdam months ago. The initial consultation. The detailed tests. The quiet conversations she had not fully understood at the time.
Had they been evaluating more than his illness?
“I need to know everything,” she said firmly. “If this trust is behind it, I want names. Faces.”
“I’ll continue digging,” Daniel replied. “But Miss Clara, I need to ask something.”
“What?”
“Has anyone from Amsterdam contacted you directly since your return?”
She hesitated.
“No.”
“Think carefully.”
She did. Emails had come from the hospital. Formal updates. Nothing personal. Nothing intimate.
“No,” she repeated.
“All right. I’ll expand the scope. Financial records only tell part of the story. I may need to look into patient selection patterns tied to the institute there.”
Her stomach tightened. “Other patients?”
“If your partner is part of a larger study or initiative, there will be others.”
The idea unsettled her more than she expected. Peter reduced to a data point. A case file.
“I don’t want him used,” she said softly.
“Then we find out before he is.”
She appreciated that he did not offer comfort he could not guarantee.
“When will you know more?” she asked.
“Give me a few more days. I’m approaching the edges of their privacy structures. Pushing too hard too quickly could alert them.”
Alert them.
The thought sent a ripple of fear through her.
“Be careful,” she said.
“I always am.”
The call ended shortly after.
Clara remained on the balcony long after the screen went dark. Amsterdam. The word felt heavier now, no longer just a place of hope but a source of quiet design.
Inside, her mother called her name.
She did not answer immediately.
Instead, she rested both hands over her stomach and stared into the fading light, aware that the threads she had chosen to pull were leading back to the very city where everything had begun.
And somewhere far from her, beyond canals and clinical walls, someone might already know that she was starting to look.