PART 3 — THE BOY WHO WASN’T SUPPOSED TO EXIST
“BRING THE OTHER BOY HOME.”
I read the words twice in my head before I could make myself speak.
“Ruiz, get everyone out of that shed.”
The detective was quiet on the other end of the phone.
Then I heard her give the order.
“Nobody touches anything else. Outside. Now.”
Footsteps.
A door scraping open.
Rain suddenly louder.
When she came back, her breathing had quickened.
“Why?”
“Because we don’t know what that message means, and whoever wrote ‘tomorrow’ may be expecting something to happen at that property.”
“You think Greg wrote it?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the truth.
And at 5:41 in the morning, the truth was becoming stranger by the minute.
Greg had allegedly locked an injured nine-year-old inside a shed.
Leo had a fractured jaw.
An untreated wound had become severely infected.
Metal fragments were buried in his cheek.
Jars containing teeth had been found on the property.
A cooler contained pediatric hospital bracelets.
One carried Leo’s name from eight years earlier.
Another carried the same surname and the first name Eli.
And now someone had marked tomorrow beside Leo’s height on a wall.
Nothing about this looked accidental anymore.
“Photograph everything,” I said.
“We already are.”
“And don’t assume Greg is the only person involved.”
Ruiz paused.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because Greg has been at this hospital for hours.”
Silence.
The implication settled between us.
If that writing was fresh—
really fresh—
someone else might have been at the property while Greg was standing in my emergency department.
“I’ll call you back,” Ruiz said.
The line disconnected.
I stood alone beside the nurses’ station.
Around me, the ER continued functioning as if the world were ordinary.
A monitor beeped behind Curtain 6.
A respiratory therapist pushed a cart toward Room 2.
Someone laughed softly near registration.
The coffee machine hissed.
And thirty yards away, surgeons were removing living larvae and pieces of metal from the face of a child whose past suddenly seemed to include a hospital admission nobody could find.
Sarah came around the corner.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean worse than twenty minutes ago.”
I showed her the notes I had written while speaking to Ruiz.
She read them.
Her expression changed at Eli’s name.
Then she read the final line.
BRING THE OTHER BOY HOME.
“Who’s the other boy?”
“That’s the question.”
“Could Eli be a brother?”
“Dana didn’t mention another child.”
“Maybe she lost one.”
“Maybe.”
Sarah folded her arms.
“Or maybe Leo isn’t who we think he is.”
I looked at her.
Neither of us liked saying it.
But we were doctors and nurses.
We were trained to notice when facts did not fit.
“Pull Leo’s registration history again,” I said.
“I already did.”
“And?”
“Nothing before tonight.”
“Insurance claims?”
“Not through our system.”
“Birth record?”
“We don’t have access to everything from here.”
“Call medical records.”
“At six in the morning?”
“Wake somebody.”
Sarah started walking.
Then stopped.
“Thomas.”
I turned.
“What if Dana lied?”
I looked toward the family room.
I looked toward the family room.
“That’s what I’m about to find out.”
Dana was sitting alone when I entered.
Her raincoat lay across the chair beside her.
She still wore navy scrubs.
Her hands were wrapped around a paper cup she wasn’t drinking from.
She stood immediately.
“Leo?”
“Still in surgery.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s stable.”
Her shoulders dropped slightly.
“Can I see him?”
“When surgery is finished.”
She nodded.
I closed the door.
“Dana, I need to ask you something that may sound strange.”
Fear returned to her face.
“What?”
“Has Leo ever been treated at this hospital before?”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly?
I couldn’t tell.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Ever admitted?”
“No.”
“Emergency department?”
“No.”
“When was the last time he saw any doctor?”
She looked down.
“About two years ago.”
“Where?”
“A clinic in Lincoln City.”
“Before that?”
“Pediatrician.”
“Which hospital was he born in?”
Dana looked up.
“He wasn’t.”
I stared at her.
“What do you mean?”
“He wasn’t born in a hospital.”
“Where was he born?”
“At home.”
“Was that planned?”
Her fingers tightened around the cup.
“Yes.”
“Who attended the birth?”
“A midwife.”
“Name?”
She hesitated.
That hesitation mattered.
“Dana.”
“Marianne.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember the last name of the woman who delivered your son?”
“It was nine years ago.”
“Do you have Leo’s birth certificate?”
“Of course.”
“Where?”
“At home.”
“Original?”
“I think so.”
I sat across from her.
“Who filed it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dana, look at me.”
She did.
“Is Leo your biological son?”
The cup slipped slightly between her hands.
“Yes.”
But the word sounded fragile.
Not false exactly.
Fragile.
“Why did that question scare you?”
“It didn’t.”
“It did.”
She stood.
“I want to see my son.”
“And you will.”
“Then stop interrogating me like I hurt him.”
“I’m trying to understand why a hospital identification bracelet with Leo’s name was found in a cooler on your property.”
The color drained from her face.
She sat back down.
“What?”
I watched her carefully.
“Detective Ruiz found pediatric hospital bracelets in the shed.”
Dana stared at me.
“One of them has Leo’s name.”
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
“The date is eight years ago.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“There was another bracelet beneath it.”
I waited.
“Same last name.”
Dana’s eyes filled.
“First name Eli.”
The cup collapsed in her hand.
Coffee spilled across her fingers.
She didn’t notice.
“Dana?”
She stood so quickly the chair struck the wall.
“No.”
“You know that name.”
“No.”
“Who is Eli?”
“I need Greg.”
That was not the answer I expected.
“Greg is with police.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“That’s not happening right now.”
She moved toward the door.
I stepped in front of it.
“Dana, who is Eli?”
Her face crumpled.
“Please.”
“Who is he?”
“Please don’t do this here.”
“Is he your child?”
Her breathing became shallow.
“Dana.”
Then she whispered:
“He was.”
Was.
The word changed everything.
“What happened to him?”
She pressed both hands over her mouth.
For several seconds, I thought she might faint.
I pulled the chair forward.
“Sit.”
She did.
“Tell me about Eli.”
Dana stared at the floor.
“He was Leo’s brother.”
“Older?”
“No.”
My pulse slowed.
“Twin?”
She nodded.
I thought of the bracelet.
Same last name.
Same hospital.
Same approximate time.
“Leo has a twin brother?”
“Had.”
“What happened?”
“He died.”
“When?”
“When they were babies.”
“How old?”
“Eleven months.”
“What caused his death?”
She shook her head.
“Dana.”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“We have to.”
“No, you don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
She looked at me.
And for the first time, I saw something beneath her fear.
Guilt.
“Eli got sick.”
“With what?”
“Fever.”
“And?”
“He stopped eating.”
“Did you take him to a doctor?”
Her silence answered first.
“Dana?”
“We didn’t have insurance.”
“That doesn’t explain—”
“I know.”
Her voice cracked.
“I know what it sounds like now.”
“What happened?”
“Marianne came.”
“The midwife?”
Dana nodded.
“She said it was probably viral. She said to keep him hydrated.”
“How long was he sick?”
“Three days.”
“And then?”
Dana stared at the crushed coffee cup.
“He stopped breathing.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did you call 911?”
“Yes.”
“Was he brought here?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I was hysterical.”
She wiped her face.
“Greg wasn’t in my life then. Leo’s biological father was.”
“Name?”
“Michael Keller.”
I stopped.
“Keller?”
“Yes.”
“That’s Greg’s last name.”
Dana closed her eyes.
I felt the room shift.
“How are Michael and Greg related?”
“They’re brothers.”
I said nothing for a moment.
“You married your deceased child’s uncle?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Explain it.”
“Michael disappeared.”
“When?”
“Two months after Eli died.”
“Disappeared how?”
“He left.”
“Did you report him missing?”
“He called me.”
“From where?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he say?”
“That he couldn’t live with what happened.”
“And then?”
“I never heard from him again.”
“How did Greg enter the picture?”
“He helped.”
“Immediately?”
“About a year later.”
“Did Greg know Leo before you married?”
“Yes.”
“Did Greg know about Eli?”
Her eyes lifted to mine.
“Yes.”
“Then why would Eli’s hospital bracelet be locked in a cooler in Greg’s shed?”
Dana’s lips trembled.
“I don’t know.”
“Why would Leo’s bracelet be there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why are there other children’s bracelets?”
“I don’t know!”
Her voice broke.
I let the silence settle.
Then I asked the question that mattered most.
“Did you see Eli after he died?”
Dana froze.
“What?”
“His body.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“At the hospital.”
“Did you identify him?”
She stared at me.
“Dana.”
“I saw a baby under a blanket.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Her face went blank.
“No.”
“You didn’t identify him?”
“They told me it was him.”
“Who told you?”
“Michael.”
My heartbeat grew louder in my ears.
“And hospital staff?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did you attend a funeral?”
“Yes.”
“Open casket?”
“No.”
“Did you receive a death certificate?”
“Michael handled it.”
Every answer was opening another door.
“Where is Eli buried?”
“Pacific View Cemetery.”
“Have you visited?”
“Every year.”
“Have you ever seen official records confirming the burial?”
She looked confused.
“Why would I?”
Because grieving people trust.
Because exhausted parents trust.
Because sometimes the person holding your hand is the person you should fear most.
I didn’t say any of that.
Instead I asked:
“Did Leo ever know he had a twin?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He was too young to remember.”
“He’s nine now.”
“I couldn’t tell him.”
“Why?”
Dana looked at me as though the answer should have been obvious.
“Because every time I looked at him, I saw both of them.”
The door opened.
Sarah stood there.
“Thomas.”
Something in her voice pulled me into the hallway.
“What?”
“Medical records called back.”
“And?”
“They found an archived encounter.”
“For Leo?”
She handed me a printed page.
“Not exactly.”
At the top was a medical record created eight years earlier.
Patient:
ELI KELLER.
Age:
11 months.
Emergency admission.
I scanned downward.
Respiratory arrest.
Severe dehydration.
Possible sepsis.
Resuscitation unsuccessful.
Time of death: 2:17 a.m.
So Dana’s story had been true.
At least that part.
Then Sarah pointed to the bottom.
“Read the note.”
I did.
My skin prickled.
IDENTIFICATION PENDING.
“What does that mean?”
“The baby arrived without documentation.”
“Who brought him?”
“Father.”
“Michael?”
“Doesn’t give a first name.”
“Then how was he registered as Eli?”
Sarah pointed farther down.
Name supplied verbally by accompanying adult.
I looked toward the family-room door.
“That still doesn’t prove anything.”
“No.”
Sarah handed me another page.
“But this might.”
It was a scanned nursing note.
Written at 2:42 a.m.
Twenty-five minutes after the child was pronounced dead.
I read it twice.
FATHER REFUSED FORMAL IDENTIFICATION PHOTOGRAPH.
MOTHER NOT PRESENT AT TIME OF PRONOUNCEMENT.
Then one final sentence:
SECOND MALE INFANT REPORTED AT RESIDENCE.
WELFARE CHECK RECOMMENDED.
“Second male infant,” I whispered.
“Leo.”
“Probably.”
“Was the welfare check done?”
Sarah shook her head.
“No documentation.”
“Why?”
“The chart ends.”
Of course it did.
My phone rang.
Ruiz.
I answered.
“Tell me you have something.”
“We do.”
Her voice was tight.
“What?”
“The bracelets aren’t the worst thing in the cooler.”
“What else?”
“Photographs.”
My stomach dropped.
“Of what?”
“Children.”
“How many?”
“Still counting.”
“Are they injured?”
“Some.”
I closed my eyes.
“Leo?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Different ages.”
“What about Eli?”
Ruiz paused.
“We found a photograph labeled Eli.”
My throat tightened.
“An infant?”
“No.”
I opened my eyes.
“What do you mean, no?”
“The boy in this picture is maybe seven.”
I gripped the phone.
“That’s impossible.”
“That’s why I called.”
“Could the label be wrong?”
“Maybe.”
“Send it to the hospital secure line.”
“Already did.”
Sarah and I hurried toward the workstation.
The image arrived seconds later.
It was old.
Poorly lit.
A Polaroid photographed again with a phone.
A boy stood beside the shed.
Thin.
Dark hair.
Gray sweatshirt.
His face was turned partly away.
But even from the side—
I recognized him.
Not because I had seen him before.
Because he looked almost exactly like Leo.
“Twins,” Sarah whispered.
Ruiz was still on speaker.
“What’s written on the back?”
“Eli. Age seven.”
Dana appeared behind us.
Nobody had heard her open the door.
She saw the photograph.
The sound she made stopped everyone.
“Oh my God.”
She stumbled toward the screen.
“That’s Leo.”
Ruiz heard her.
“Dana?”
“That’s Leo.”
I enlarged the photograph.
Dana pointed at the boy’s left eyebrow.
“He got that scar when he was five.”
A small white line was visible above the eye.
Sarah frowned.
“If that’s Leo, why label it Eli?”
Dana shook her head.
Then she noticed something.
“Wait.”
She leaned closer.
“What?”
“Leo’s scar is on the right.”
Nobody spoke.
I looked at the photograph again.
The scar was above the left eyebrow.
Mirror-image placement.
My skin went cold.
“Dana,” I said, “are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes.”
Her voice had become a whisper.
“Leo fell off his bike when he was five. Four stitches. Right eyebrow.”
Sarah looked at me.
Identical twins can mirror one another in small physical features.
Not proof.
But enough to make the room feel very small.
Ruiz spoke.
“There’s a date on the photograph.”
“What date?”
“Two years ago.”
Dana grabbed the desk.
“That can’t be.”
“Are you certain?”
“My son died eight years ago.”
Then Ruiz said:
“We found more.”
“How many photographs?”
“Of this boy? At least eleven.”
“What dates?”
“Over several years.”
“Latest?”
A pause.
“Three months ago.”
Dana sank into a chair.
“No.”
I stared at the screen.
If those dates were real, then one of two things was true.
Someone had been deliberately creating false photographs.
Or Eli Keller had survived.
And if Eli had survived—
whose body had arrived at our hospital eight years earlier?
My pager sounded.
OPERATING ROOM.
I answered immediately.
“This is Thomas.”
The surgeon’s voice came through.
“Can you come upstairs?”
“What happened?”
“We removed the foreign bodies.”
“The metal?”
“Yes.”
“And the larvae?”
“We’re debriding now.”
“Is Leo stable?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
The surgeon hesitated.
“One of the metal pieces isn’t from the tool on the stepfather’s belt.”
“What is it?”
“I think you need to see it.”
Ten minutes later, I stood outside the operating room staring into a specimen container.
Inside was a tiny metal rectangle.
Blood stained one edge.
Stamped into the surface was a sequence of numbers.
Not a serial number.
A date.
Eight years earlier.
And beneath the date were two letters:
EK.
Sarah whispered:
“Eli Keller.”
I looked at the surgeon.
“Where exactly was this?”
“Deep against the mandible.”
“Could it have been there for years?”
“Unlikely.”
“Then how did it get into Leo’s face?”
“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”
My phone rang again.
Ruiz.
I answered.
Her first words were:
“We found someone.”
My heart stopped.
“Where?”
“Not in the shed.”
“Where?”
“There’s a crawlspace beneath the workshop.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
“Child?”
Silence.
“Ruiz?”
“A boy.”
Dana had followed us upstairs.
She heard.
Her hands flew to her mouth.
“How old?”
“Approximately Leo’s age.”
Nobody moved.
Then I asked:
“Does he know his name?”
Ruiz took several seconds to answer.
“He won’t speak.”
“Is he injured?”
“Malnourished. Dehydrated. Old scars. We’re requesting an ambulance.”
“Bring him here.”
“Already happening.”
Dana grabbed my arm.
“Ask her what he looks like.”
I looked at her.
She was shaking.
“Ruiz, can you describe him?”
“Dark hair. Brown eyes. About four feet tall.”
Dana began crying.
“That could be anybody.”
Then Ruiz added:
“There’s a scar above his left eyebrow.”
Dana collapsed against the wall.
Sarah caught her.
I could barely hear my own voice.
“Left?”
“Yes.”
The photograph.
Eli.
Age seven.
Left eyebrow.
Ruiz continued.
“And Thomas?”
“What?”
“When we found him, he was holding something.”
“What?”
“One of those hospital bracelets.”
My mouth went dry.
“Whose name?”
“Leo Keller.”
The elevator doors opened at the end of the corridor.
Two paramedics rushed out pushing a stretcher.
A small figure lay beneath a thermal blanket.
Ruiz walked beside them.
Dana stood.
The stretcher came closer.
Ten feet.
Five.
Three.
The boy turned his face toward us.
Dana made a sound I will never forget.
Because the child on that stretcher had Leo’s eyes.
Leo’s nose.
Leo’s dark hair.
Even the same small dimple near his chin.
But the scar was on the opposite side.
Dana stepped forward.
“Eli?”
The boy’s eyes widened.
He stared at her.
His lips moved.
No sound came out.
Dana reached toward him.
He recoiled so violently the paramedic nearly lost hold of the stretcher.
“No!” Ruiz shouted.
Dana froze.
The boy pulled the blanket over his head.
Then, from beneath it, he finally spoke.
His voice was hoarse.
Terrified.
But perfectly clear.
“That’s not my mom.”
Dana stopped breathing.
The hallway went silent.
I moved closer.
“Okay. Nobody’s going to touch you.”
The blanket lowered slightly.
One brown eye appeared.
“My name is Dr. Thomas.”
He watched me.
“Can you tell me your name?”
He shook his head.
“That’s okay.”
I pointed toward the bracelet in his fist.
“Do you know Leo?”
His hand closed tighter around it.
For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.
Then he whispered:
“Leo is the name Greg gave him.”
A cold sensation moved down my back.
“What was his name before?”
The boy looked directly at Dana.
She was crying now.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
The child whispered one word.
“Eli.”
Dana shook her head.
“No.”
The boy continued.
“He switched us.”
Nobody understood.
Not yet.
“Who switched you?” I asked.
The child looked toward Ruiz.
Then toward the elevators, as though expecting someone else to appear.
“Greg.”
Dana stepped backward.
“No. Greg didn’t even know us when they were babies.”
The boy looked at her.
For the first time, his expression changed.
Not fear.
Confusion.
Then he said:
“Greg knew you before Michael did.”
Dana went white.
“What?”
The boy raised the hospital bracelet.
“He told me everything.”
Ruiz crouched beside the stretcher.
“What did Greg tell you?”
The boy looked at the bracelet.
“That one baby had to disappear.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody paid.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Paid for what?”
He swallowed.
Then pointed toward the floor.
Toward the parking level below us.
“Ask the man in the black truck.”
Ruiz stood instantly.
“What black truck?”
The boy’s eyes filled with terror.
“He followed the ambulance.”
Every head in the corridor turned toward the windows.
Far below, through the rain, a black pickup sat beneath a parking-lot light.
Engine running.
Headlights off.
Someone was sitting behind the wheel.
Ruiz grabbed her radio.
“Units to the north lot. Black pickup near employee parking. Approach carefully.”
The truck moved before she finished.
Tires screamed against wet pavement.
It shot toward the exit.
A patrol vehicle turned after it.
Dana stared through the window.
Then she whispered:
“I know that truck.”
I turned to her.
“Whose is it?”
Her face had gone completely white.
“It belonged to Michael.”
“Leo’s biological father?”
“Yes.”
“But Michael disappeared eight years ago.”
Dana watched the taillights vanish into the rain.
“I thought he did.”
Behind us, the rescued boy suddenly began struggling against the stretcher straps.
“No!”
The paramedic tried to calm him.
“You’re safe.”
“No, no, no!”
I rushed over.
“What’s wrong?”
He pointed toward the operating-room doors.
“Don’t let Leo wake up!”
Dana stared at him.
“Why?”
The boy began crying.
Not quietly.
Not like Leo.
This was panic.
Pure panic.
“Because Greg told him what to do when he wakes up.”
My blood went cold.
“What did he tell him to do?”
The boy looked at me.
Then toward the operating room.
“He told Leo that if doctors ever found the metal in his face…”
He stopped.
“What?”
“…he had to remember the number.”
“What number?”
The boy whispered:
“Room 14.”
Sarah frowned.
“We don’t have a Room 14.”
I did.
Not anymore.
Eight years earlier, before the pediatric wing was renovated, Room 14 had been an isolation room.
The same wing where the unidentified infant registered as Eli Keller had died.
I looked at Sarah.
She understood.
We ran.
The old pediatric corridor was now used for hospital storage.
Room 14 had been sealed after renovations.
Or it was supposed to be.
When security unlocked it, the smell hit us first.
Dust.
Mildew.
And something faintly sweet.
The same smell that had come from Leo’s wound.
Ruiz raised her flashlight.
The room looked empty.
Then Sarah pointed toward the wall.
“Thomas.”
Someone had removed a section of drywall behind an old cabinet.
Inside was a narrow compartment.
And inside that compartment sat a cardboard medical-record box.
Ruiz pulled on gloves.
She opened it.
Hospital bracelets.
Photographs.
Birth records.
Copies of death certificates.
All children.
All boys.
Then I saw the folder on top.
LEO KELLER.
Ruiz opened it.
The first page was not a medical record.
It was a typed agreement.
At the bottom were three signatures.
Michael Keller.
Greg Keller.
And a third name.
Dana saw it over my shoulder.
She screamed.
Because the third signature belonged to someone who had been standing beside us in the hospital almost the entire night.
Someone who had examined Leo’s scans.
Someone who knew exactly where the metal had been buried.
I looked toward the corridor.
But Dr. Patel was gone.
His white coat lay on the floor beside the elevator.
And clipped to its pocket was an old pediatric hospital bracelet.
The name printed on it was not Leo.
Not Eli.
It read:
PATIENT KELLER — TWIN A.
Ruiz’s radio crackled.
“Detective, we found Dr. Patel’s car.”
“Where?”
“Employee garage.”
“Is he there?”
“No.”
“What did you find?”
Static.
Then the officer answered:
“Blood in the back seat.”
Ruiz stared at me.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
Before anyone could speak again, the intercom above us chimed.
A calm recorded voice filled the corridor.
“Code Blue. Pediatric recovery.”
My heart stopped.
Leo.
Sarah and I ran.
Behind us, the rescued boy screamed:
“DON’T LET HIM SAY THE NUMBER!”
But by the time I reached recovery, Leo was already awake.
His eyes found mine.
His heart monitor climbed.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
He opened his mouth.
And whispered:
“Four…”
I moved closer.
“Leo, don’t talk.”
“Seven…”
Sarah grabbed my arm.
“What is he doing?”
I knew.
He wasn’t saying Room 14.
He was reciting something Greg had forced him to memorize.
“Two…”
“Leo, stop.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I have to.”
“No, you don’t.”
“He said Mom dies if I forget.”
Dana appeared in the doorway.
Leo saw her.
His voice broke.
Then he said the final three digits.
“Six… one… nine.”
Ruiz wrote them down.
472619.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then the rescued boy looked at the number.
His face changed.
“I know that.”
Ruiz turned.
“What is it?”
He pointed toward the evidence box from Room 14.
“That’s not a code.”
“What is it?”
“A grave.”
Dana stopped crying.
I stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
The boy swallowed.
“That’s where they put the baby who wasn’t Eli.”
Ruiz’s radio crackled again.
This time the voice on the other end sounded shaken.
“Detective?”
“Go.”
“We located the black truck.”
“Michael?”
“No driver.”
“Where is it?”
“Pacific View Cemetery.”
Dana grabbed the doorway.
The same cemetery where she had spent eight years visiting Eli’s grave.
Ruiz asked:
“Exact location?”
The officer answered:
“Section 47.”
I looked at the number Sarah had written.
472619.
47.
26.
19.
Section.
Row.
Plot.
Dana whispered:
“That isn’t Eli’s grave.”
“No,” the rescued boy said.
Everyone looked at him.
He pulled Leo’s old bracelet against his chest.
“That’s where Greg said the first boy is buried.”
“The first boy?”
Ruiz asked.
The child nodded.
“How many were there?”
His answer came so softly that I almost wished I hadn’t heard it.
“Before us?”
He looked toward the box filled with children’s names.
“Thirteen.”
And somewhere below us, from the hospital parking garage, a car engine started.
TO BE CONTINUED — PART 4
