Midnight approached, but there was still no word from the lab.
Joseph closed his laptop and stood up, dialing his contact at the lab as he headed for the bedroom. But the call didn’t go through.
His brow furrowed, his expression tightening. He knew these things took time, but a gnawing unease settled in his stomach. He was torn between desperately wanting the results and dreading them—dreading the possibility that he was wrong, that the child had no connection to Lennon at all.
He walked into his bedroom, intending to shower, but as he was about to set his phone down, it rang shrilly, startling him. His nerves went taut. He stared at the screen, his gaze sharpening.
“Hello? Are the results in?”
The doctor on the other end of the line hesitated. “Mr. Baird, the results are in, but…”
That single word—“but”—sent Joseph’s hopes crashing to the floor. So, he had been imagining things after all.
“The boy has no relation to the Baird family?” he asked, pre-empting the bad news.
“No, that’s not it…” the doctor denied.
Joseph’s heart leaped back into his throat. “So he is my biological nephew?”
“That’s not it either…” the doctor stammered, staring at the report in his hand, completely baffled.
Joseph’s patience snapped. “What the hell are the results, then? Have you lost the ability to speak?”
The doctor flinched at his roar and blurted out, “Mr. Baird, the child is not your nephew. He’s your biological son!”
What?


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