He did.
He read the paper.
Read it again.
Then looked up at her, eyes shining.
“Positive,” he said hoarsely. “Ninety‑nine point nine percent probability.”
He swallowed.
“She’s mine,” he whispered.
Relief crashed over Natalie.
She’d known, of course.
But having proof, having something no article or rumor could touch, felt like vindication.
“Congratulations,” she said softly. “You’re going to be a father.”
“We’re going to be parents,” he corrected.
He looked over at his siblings.
“You’re going to be an uncle and an aunt.”
Benjamin whooped.
Jasmine grinned.
Then they were all hugging—this strange, mismatched little group in a Brooklyn living room.
Afterward, Carter pulled out his phone and brought up a document.
“I need to show you something,” he said.
He handed it to her.
“This is the complete investigation report,” he said. “I want you to read it. All of it.”
“Carter…” she protested.
“I need you to see what I saw,” he insisted. “What made me realize how wrong I’d been.”
She read.
It wasn’t just facts. It was her life in bullet points and bank statements and interviews with people who knew her.
Clients describing her as “professional and kind” and “the translator I trust most.” Neighbors talking about how she cared for her grandmother. Old teachers calling her “fiercely determined.” Even social media posts—her and Charlotte at thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Sleepovers. Study sessions. College graduation.
At the end, there was a note in Carter’s voice.
“Subject displays consistent pattern of honesty, integrity, and independence. No evidence of deceptive intent. Conclusion: Natalie Spencer is exactly who she appears to be—a good person doing her best in difficult circumstances.”
“You wrote this,” she said, looking up.
“I wrote the conclusion,” he said. “After reading everything. After realizing I’d been an idiot to doubt you for even a second.”
He knelt in front of her.
