Page 37 of Porcelain Lies

“He established a private practice in Beverly Hills under the name Thomas Fermont.” Vasya’s voice stays steady, clinical. “Changed specialties from obstetrics to general practice. Smart move — harder to trace.”

My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack. The bastard’s been living the high life while my son suffers.

“Wife, two kids.” Vasya continues, tapping at his keyboard. “A son and a daughter.”

The perfect fucking American family. Building a new life after destroying my son’s.

“But here’s what you need to know, brother.” Vasya’s tone shifts, darker. “I found the hospital records from that night.”

Ice spreads through my veins. “Show me.”

Documents appear on my screen. Medical charts, nurse’s notes, blood alcohol readings.

“He was drunk.” Vasya’s words hit like bullets. “Three times over the legal limit when he performed the delivery.Tried to cover it up afterward, but the night nurse documented everything before getting fired.”

Red clouds my vision. The edge of my desk splinters under my grip.

“Mudak.” The word comes out as a growl. “He wasdrunkwhen he broke my son? While he fucked up his spine and put him in a wheelchair for life?”

The memories flood back — Bobik’s screams when I saw him in the neonatal unit, the panic when the doctors saw me, Olga’s pale face as she told me that our child would never be normal. All because this piece of shit couldn’t stay sober for one fucking delivery.

“I want everything.” My voice sounds foreign, dangerous. “Every detail of his new life. Every place he goes. Every person he talks to.”

“Already compiling it.” Vasya nods. “But there’s more…”

The medical terms blur together as Vasya walks me through the delivery records. Each clinical detail hits like a physical blow, painting a picture I’ve imagined countless times over the years.

“The forceps application showed clear signs of improper positioning.” Vasya’s voice stays steady, professional. “Blood alcohol content of 0.24 affected his motor control. When the baby presented with shoulder dystocia, Larkin panicked.”

My knuckles crack as I grip the desk. The wood splinters beneath my fingers.

“He applied excessive lateral traction.” Vasya continues, tapping through documents. “The force damaged the C5 and C6 vertebrae. Permanent injury to the brachial plexus nerves.”

I see Bobik’s face, bright with excitement over his new wheelchair. The way his small arms strain to lift even light objects. His brilliant mind trapped in a body that won’t obey him.

“The night nurse’s report indicates she tried to intervene.” More tapping. “Suggested calling in the on-call physician when she smelled alcohol on Larkin’s breath. He threatened to have her fired if she spoke up.”

“Timeline.” The word comes out like gravel. “When exactly did he run?”

“Three days after the delivery. Once he realized whose kid he’d messed with.” Vasya pulls up travel records. “Booked flights to Germany under his real name as a diversion. Actually flew to New York through Canada, then drove cross-country to California.”

“Planned.” I taste blood from biting my cheek. “Themudakhad an escape route ready.”

“Da. The identity change was arranged months before. He knew someone would eventually discover his drinking.”

The rage builds, familiar yet sharper now with each new detail. This wasn’t just negligence. The bastard knew he was dangerous. Kept operating, anyway. Then ran like a coward when it all went wrong.

“How long?” My voice sounds strange, distant. “How long has he been living his perfect fucking life in Los Angeles?”

“Ten years,” Vasya says bluntly.

“Ten fucking years.” My fist slams into the desk. “How did we miss this?”

“He had help.” Vasya’s expression darkens. “High-level connections in witness protection. Not the usual program — something deeper. Black budget stuff.”

The implications suck the wind from my lungs. Government involvement. No wonder our usual methods failed.

“Show me.”

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