Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~9 min read
Chapter 17: Paternity
SLOANE
Two weeks later, I’m back in court.
Court-ordered paternity testing.
For a baby I’m not sure I’m keeping.
But I need to know.
Need to understand which nightmare I’m living.
The twins are brought in separately.
Both in orange jumpsuits.
Both handcuffed.
Both looking at me with unreadable expressions.
Ethan goes first.
Cheek swab. Blood draw. DNA collected.
He tries to talk to me.
“Sloane—”
“Don’t.”
“Please. I need to say—”
“I said don’t. You lost the right to speak to me when you let your brother rape me.”
The guard pulls him away.
Everett is next.
He smiles when he sees me.
“Congratulations. I heard you’re pregnant.”
I don’t respond.
“Hoping it’s mine? Or hoping it’s his?”
“Hoping it’s neither.”
“Too bad. It’s definitely one of us. Maybe both.”
My stomach turns.
“That’s not how biology works.”
“Isn’t it? We’re identical twins. Same DNA. How will you ever really know?”
The lab tech interrupts.
“Actually, identical twins do have some minor genetic differences. Enough to distinguish paternity.”
Everett’s smile falters.
“Oh.”
“Surprised?” I ask. “Did you think you’d get away with that too?”
“I’ve gotten away with everything else.”
“Not anymore.”
They take his DNA.
Lead him away.
I sit in the courthouse hallway.
Waiting.
Results will take a week.
Seven more days of not knowing.
Seven more days of this baby growing inside me.
A baby that’s half monster.
Question is: which monster?
Rebecca sits next to me.
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m pregnant with either my rapist’s baby or my complicit ex-husband’s baby. How do you think I’m holding up?”
“Fair point.”
“Have you talked to Vivian?”
“She wants to meet with you. Talk about the baby.”
“I don’t want to see her.”
“She says she has information. About which twin is more likely to be the father.”
“How would she know?”
“Timeline, apparently. She’s been tracking when each twin was where. Based on your statements about when you had sex, she thinks she can narrow it down.”
“That’s creepy.”
“That’s a mother trying to make amends.”
“It’s too late for amends.”
“Maybe. But don’t you want to know?”
I consider it.
“Fine. I’ll meet her. But not alone.”
We meet at a neutral location.
A conference room in Rebecca’s office.
Vivian brings a calendar.
Detailed notes.
Dates. Times. Locations.
“I’ve been keeping track,” she says. “Of where each twin was. What they were doing. I started after I gave you the folder. To see if I could help.”
She slides the calendar toward me.
Points to specific dates.
“Here. This is the night of the alleged assault. Based on text messages between the twins—which I accessed from Ethan’s cloud backup—Everett was in your bedroom. Ethan was at a bar across town. There’s credit card evidence.”
“So it’s definitely Everett’s baby?”
“Well, that depends. When did you last have consensual sex with Ethan?”
I think back.
“About a week before Everett moved in. Maybe three weeks before the assault.”
“So it could be either.”
My hope deflates.
“Three weeks is still within the window for conception.”
“Yes.”
“So I’m back to not knowing.”
“Not quite. The paternity test will tell you for certain. But I wanted you to know—based on timeline alone, it’s more likely to be Everett’s. Maybe 70-30.”
“Great. So I’m probably pregnant with my rapist’s baby.”
Vivian reaches across the table.
I pull my hand away.
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry, Sloane. For all of it. For raising them. For not stopping them sooner. For—”
“Your apologies don’t change anything. I’m still pregnant. They’re still monsters. And you’re still the mother who enabled them.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you keep apologizing like that fixes it. It doesn’t.”
“I know it doesn’t. But I don’t know what else to do.”
“You could’ve not let them torture women for a decade. That would’ve helped.”
She starts crying.
I don’t feel bad.
Rebecca walks Vivian out.
Comes back alone.
“That was harsh.”
“She deserves harsh.”
“Maybe. But she’s also a victim in her own way.”
“She’s not the victim here.”
“No. You are. Along with Amanda, Cassidy, Jennifer, and god knows how many others.”
I look at the calendar Vivian left.
All those dates. All those notes.
Evidence of a pattern.
Evidence of evil.
“Can we use this in court?”
“Absolutely. It shows premeditation. Coordination. Pattern of behavior.”
“Good. I want them to pay for every single thing they’ve done.”
“They will. I promise.”
That night, I can’t stop thinking about the 70-30 odds.
Seventy percent chance it’s Everett’s.
Thirty percent it’s Ethan’s.
Either way, I lose.
But one feels worse than the other.
Being pregnant with your rapist’s baby.
That’s a special kind of horror.
Jade finds me researching abortion procedures.
“Are you thinking about terminating?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”
“Have you decided?”
“Not really. I’m just… looking at options.”
“What’s holding you back?”
“I don’t know. Part of me wants to keep it. To prove I can survive anything. To not let them take this from me too.”
“And the other part?”
“Is terrified I’ll look at this child every day and see him. Or them. Or the worst parts of myself for not protecting us both.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong—”
“I married a man whose twin was obsessed with me. I ignored red flags. I trusted the wrong people. How is that not wrong?”
“That’s being human. Not wrong.”
“It feels wrong.”
Five days until paternity results.
I make an appointment with a therapist who specializes in sexual assault.
Her name is Dr. Morgan.
She’s mid-forties. Calm. Experienced.
“Tell me what brings you in.”
I tell her everything.
When I finish, she’s quiet for a moment.
“That’s one of the most complex trauma situations I’ve ever heard.”
“Is that professional assessment?”
“That’s human reaction. Professionally, I’d say you’re experiencing severe complex PTSD with elements of betrayal trauma, gaslighting abuse, and reproductive coercion.”
“Reproductive coercion?”
“Being made pregnant through deception or assault. It’s a form of intimate partner violence.”
“I was violated in so many ways.”
“Yes. And now you’re facing an impossible decision about the pregnancy.”
“How do people usually decide?”
“There’s no usual. Everyone’s different. Some terminate immediately. Some carry to term and adopt out. Some keep the baby and work through the trauma. There’s no right answer.”
“What if I make the wrong choice?”
“There’s no wrong choice. Only the choice that’s right for you in this moment. And you can’t know which that is until you’re ready.”
“What if I’m never ready?”
“Then you’ll make the choice anyway. Because not deciding is still a decision.”
Three days until results.
I visit the house.
My house.
The one I shared with Ethan.
It’s empty now.
They’ve both been in jail for three weeks.
I walk through the rooms.
Remembering.
The kitchen where we made breakfast together.
The living room where we watched movies.
The bedroom where I slept next to a man who might not have been my husband.
It all feels tainted now.
Ruined.
I pack up my remaining things.
Photos. Books. Clothes.
Evidence of a life that no longer exists.
In the bedroom, I find something.
Hidden under the mattress.
A journal.
I open it.
Ethan’s handwriting.
Dated entries starting two months ago.
*”Ev moved in today. Sloane’s uncomfortable but trying to hide it. I should’ve said no. But he’s my brother. How could I?”*
*”I think Ev’s been using my cologne. Found the bottle in his room. When I asked, he said he ran out of his. But something feels off.”*
*”Sloane asked if we’ve been switching places. I lied. Told her she’s imagining things. I’m a coward.”*
*”Ev admitted he’s been going to my office sometimes. Pretending to be me. Said it’s harmless. It’s not harmless. But I don’t know how to stop him without losing my brother.”*
*”I think he slept with her. Sloane’s acting strange. Asking about the tattoo. Checking constantly. I think Ev got a temporary tattoo and went to our bed. I should confront him. I should tell her. But I’m terrified.”*
*”She knows. I can see it in her eyes. She knows something’s wrong and I keep gaslighting her. I’m becoming him. I’m becoming my brother.”*
The last entry is dated the day before I left:
*”I’ve lost her. I’ve lost myself. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know if it can be fixed. All I know is I love her and I destroyed us by being too weak to protect her from my twin. I’m sorry, Sloane. I’m so fucking sorry.”*
I close the journal.
Sit on the edge of the bed.
And cry.
Because Ethan knew.
Knew what was happening.
Could’ve stopped it.
Chose his brother over me.
Every single time.
I take the journal.
Give it to Rebecca.
“More evidence.”
She reads it.
“This shows Ethan knew about the assault before it happened. Proves he was complicit. Might even upgrade his charges.”
“Good.”
“Are you okay?”
“No. But I will be. Eventually.”
One day until results.
I can’t sleep.
Can’t eat.
Just wait.
Counting down the hours.
Tomorrow I’ll know.
Whose baby I’m carrying.
Which monster’s DNA is growing inside me.
And then I’ll have to decide.
Keep it or terminate it.
Raise it or adopt it out.
Live with it or free myself from it.
No matter what, it’s the hardest decision I’ll ever make.
And I have to make it alone.
Because the father—whoever he is—doesn’t get a say.
Not after what they did.
Not after everything.
This choice is mine.
Mine alone.
And tomorrow, I’ll finally have all the information I need to make it.
END OF CHAPTER 17
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