PART 3
For several seconds, I could only stare at Grandpa.
The address on my phone seemed to burn into my hand.
“That address is where I was actually born.”
His words replayed in my head.
I looked down at the birth certificate again.
St. Matthew’s Hospital was printed across the top.
“You just said I was born at St. Matthew’s.”
Grandpa shook his head.
“That certificate was created afterward.”
“Created?”
“Your mother needed paperwork.”
“Paperwork for what?”
“For a child who officially wasn’t supposed to exist.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
Grandpa looked at the clock.
10:49 P.M.
“We don’t have much time.”
“Then stop wasting it.”
Nora whimpered against my chest.
I kissed her forehead automatically, but my eyes stayed on Grandpa.
He slowly placed the revolver on the kitchen table.
“The address they sent you belongs to an old property outside Bellweather.”
“I’ve never heard of Bellweather.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
“Of course I wasn’t.”
My laugh sounded bitter even to me.
“Apparently I wasn’t supposed to know anything about my own life.”
“Emily—”
“No.”
I pointed at the birth certificate.
“You told me my parents died in an accident.”
“They didn’t.”
“You told me Daniel Mercer was just some uncle nobody talked about.”
“He wasn’t.”
“You told me you had never met Caleb.”
Grandpa’s face tightened.
“I never said that.”
I froze.
“Yes, you did.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I let you believe it.”
I stared at him.
The distinction made me furious.
“You’re seriously going to hide behind words now?”
“No.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
“I met Caleb once.”
My heart lurched.
“When?”
“The night you told him you were pregnant.”
I stopped breathing.
Grandpa sat down heavily.
“He came here.”
“No.”
“He did.”
“I was at his apartment that night.”
“After you left.”
I remembered that evening.
The positive test.
Caleb’s pale face.
His question.
Who else knows?
I had left his apartment around nine.
He had promised to call me the next morning.
He never did.
“You saw him after I left?”
Grandpa nodded.
“What did he want?”
“To know whether I was Thomas Bennett.”
“And?”
“I said yes.”
“What happened?”
Grandpa looked toward the black box.
“He showed me a photograph.”
“What photograph?”
“The same one your mother left.”
He picked up the picture of Daniel Mercer.
The young man with Caleb’s face.
My stomach tightened again.
“Caleb had this?”
“Another copy.”
“What did he say?”
Grandpa’s voice dropped.
“He asked me if Daniel Mercer was still alive.”
I swallowed.
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth.”
“Which version?”
That hurt him.
Good.
Maybe I wanted it to.
“I told him I didn’t know.”
“And then?”
“He asked about you.”
“What about me?”
“He wanted to know when you were born.”
My pulse quickened.
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Did you threaten him?”
Grandpa looked away.
The stranger’s words returned.
Caleb didn’t abandon you.
He left because Thomas Bennett told him exactly what would happen if he stayed.
“Did you threaten him?”
“I warned him.”
“About what?”
“About getting you involved.”
“He was already involved! I was carrying his baby!”
“I didn’t know that yet.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
Grandpa looked at me.
“Caleb never told me you were pregnant.”
The room went still.
“But he’d just found out.”
“I know.”
“Then why wouldn’t he tell you?”
“Because I don’t think Caleb came here because of the pregnancy.”
A chill moved over my skin.
“Then why did he come?”
“He had been looking for me before he ever met you.”
I felt as though someone had pulled the floor from beneath me.
“No.”
“I believe so.”
“No. Caleb met me at a coffee shop.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bump into each other?”
I opened my mouth.
Then stopped.
I remembered.
I had been sitting alone at a little café near my office.
Caleb had accidentally knocked my cup over when he passed.
He bought me another.
We laughed.
He asked my name.
Then my number.
At least, that was how I remembered it.
Grandpa leaned forward.
“Did he ever tell you why he was in that particular coffee shop?”
“No.”
“Where was it?”
“Three blocks from my office.”
“And what company did you work for then?”
“Bennett & Rowe.”
Grandpa’s expression said enough.
My last name had been on the company directory.
On the website.
On my employee badge.
Easy to find.
“You think Caleb approached me deliberately.”
“I think it’s possible.”
The words hurt more than I expected.
Eleven months.
Birthday dinners.
Sunday mornings.
Trips to the lake.
The first time he told me he loved me.
Had all of it been planned?
“No.”
I shook my head.
“He loved me.”
“I hope he did.”
“You hope?”
“Emily, I don’t know what Caleb wanted when he first found you.”
Nora began crying harder.
The sound broke through my panic.
I sat and held her close.
“Shh, sweetheart.”
Grandpa disappeared into the living room.
He returned with the diaper bag I had packed.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting you ready.”
“For what?”
“You’re going to that address.”
I stared at him.
“You just told me everything about this is dangerous.”
“It is.”
“And now you’re telling me to go?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
“The message says alone.”
“I don’t care.”
“Then they’ll know.”
“They probably already know everything.”
He went to the hall closet and pulled out an old brown jacket.
“Grandpa.”
He kept moving.
“Grandpa!”
He stopped.
“You’re not coming.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“Emily—”
“If Caleb is there, I need to see him myself.”
“And if it’s a trap?”
“Then why send the key?”
Grandpa looked at the key lying near the door.
The faded red string matched his exactly.
He picked it up.
For the first time, I noticed something engraved along its side.
M-2.
Grandpa reached into his pocket and pulled out his own.
M-1.
“What do those mean?”
“I never knew.”
“You kept that key for twenty years without knowing what it opened?”
“Your mother told me I’d know when the time came.”
“Maybe the time came.”
Grandpa stared at both keys.
Then his face changed.
“What?”
He held them side by side.
The teeth were different.
“They don’t open the same lock.”
“So?”
“So your mother told me there was only one box.”
I looked toward the black box.
“Then the second key opens something else.”
Grandpa whispered, “Yes.”
My phone vibrated.
Another message.
11:03 P.M.
YOU HAVE 57 MINUTES.
A second line appeared.
THOMAS STAYS HOME.
I turned the phone around.
Grandpa read it.
His jaw tightened.
Then another message appeared.
IF THOMAS COMES, YOU WILL NOT SEE CALEB.
I swallowed.
Grandpa said nothing.
“I’m going.”
“No.”
“You just said I should.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever is watching us knows we’re discussing this right now.”
I looked around the dark kitchen.
“What?”
“They knew I was planning to come.”
My eyes went to the windows.
Curtains closed.
Doors locked.
“Maybe they’re guessing.”
Grandpa shook his head.
Then he looked toward Nora.
His expression sharpened.
“What?”
“Your bag.”
“What about it?”
“Where did you get it?”
“The hospital.”
“No. The diaper bag.”
“Caleb bought it.”
Grandpa went completely still.
“When?”
“Months ago.”
“Before he disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me.”
“Why?”
“Give it to me.”
I handed it over.
He dumped everything onto the kitchen table.
Diapers.
Bottles.
Wipes.
A blanket.
Extra clothes.
Then Grandpa began running his fingers along the seams.
“What are you looking for?”
He didn’t answer.
He turned the bag upside down.
Pressed along the bottom.
Then stopped.
His thumb found something beneath the lining.
He grabbed a kitchen knife.
“Grandpa!”
He sliced open the interior seam.
Something tiny fell onto the table.
A black plastic square.
Smaller than my thumbnail.
I stared at it.
“What is that?”
Grandpa’s face went white.
“A tracker.”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
He picked it up carefully.
“Possibly more than that.”
He placed it beside his phone.
“Could it record us?”
“Maybe.”
I thought about every conversation I had carried that bag through.
My appointments.
The hospital.
My drive here.
“Caleb put that there?”
“I don’t know.”
“He gave me the bag.”
“That doesn’t mean he planted it.”
“Then who did?”
Grandpa stared at the device.
“We’re going to find out.”
He walked to the back door.
“What are you doing?”
He stepped outside.
A minute later he returned without it.
“Where did you put it?”
“In Mr. Holloway’s delivery truck.”
I blinked.
“Our neighbor?”
“He leaves for the produce market at eleven thirty.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
“You just put a tracker on an eighty-year-old man’s tomato truck.”
“Let whoever is watching enjoy a midnight trip to the wholesale market.”
My smile disappeared almost immediately.
Because another thought had occurred to me.
“If they were tracking the bag, they know Nora was at the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“They know she’s here.”
“Yes.”
“And they saw her.”
Grandpa didn’t answer.
I thought about the stranger’s words.
I only came because the girl had her baby.
Not Emily.
The girl.
As though my birth and Nora’s birth were somehow connected.
“What happened when I was born?”
Grandpa’s face changed again.
“I wasn’t there.”
“Where were you?”
“At home.”
“Mom didn’t tell you she was in labor?”
“She wasn’t supposed to be having a baby.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Your mother disappeared for almost four months.”
“When?”
“The year you were born.”
“Grandpa, she was pregnant. How could she disappear without you knowing?”
“I knew she was pregnant.”
“But?”
“She told me the baby had died.”
My hand tightened around the chair.
“She told you I died?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked ashamed.
“She came home alone.”
I couldn’t speak.
“About six weeks later,” he continued, “she showed up at my door in the middle of the night carrying you.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Dad, her name is Emily. If anyone asks, she was born at St. Matthew’s.’”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
Grandpa’s eyes met mine.
“She said, ‘If Daniel ever finds out she’s alive, he’ll come for her.’”
I felt cold everywhere.
“Daniel Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“My mother’s adopted brother?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he want me?”
“I never knew.”
“But Mom did.”
“Yes.”
“And that letter?”
“May tell you.”
I looked down.
The three-page letter was still on the table.
I had only read the beginning.
“Why didn’t I finish it?”
“Because everything happened too quickly.”
I picked it up.
The second page began:
Emily, there may come a day when someone tells you that Daniel Mercer was your father.
I froze.
“Grandpa.”
He closed his eyes.
“What?”
I read the sentence aloud.
His face crumpled.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“Keep reading.”
I did.
Do not believe them.
Daniel was not your father.
He wanted people to believe he was because your existence protected something far more important than his reputation.
My heart raced.
I continued.
Your biological father’s name was Christopher Mercer.
C.M.
The initials on the photograph.
I grabbed the old picture.
Daniel + C.M.
“Christopher.”
Grandpa whispered the name as if it belonged to a ghost.
“You know him.”
“I met him once.”
“Who was he?”
“Daniel’s biological brother.”
My heart nearly stopped.
“Caleb?”
“I don’t know.”
I read faster.
Christopher was Daniel’s younger biological brother, although they were raised apart.
If Christopher is alive when you read this, do not trust him until he answers the question I taught you.
I searched the page.
“What question?”
The letter didn’t say.
Instead, beneath that sentence my mother had written:
The answer is beneath the place where you first opened your eyes.
I looked at Grandpa.
“The house.”
He nodded slowly.
“The address.”
I kept reading.
Your father—the man who raised you—knew the truth and chose you anyway.
He loved you from your first breath.
Never allow blood to make you forget who your father was.
Tears blurred the page.
Dad had known.
The man whose photograph hung above Grandpa’s fireplace wasn’t my biological father.
But he had known.
And he had stayed.
I pressed the letter against my mouth.
For a moment, the conspiracy disappeared.
I was seven again.
Dad lifting me onto his shoulders.
Dad teaching me to ride a bicycle.
Dad sneaking extra marshmallows into my hot chocolate.
He had known.
And he had loved me.
Grandpa touched my shoulder.
“He never treated you differently for one second.”
I nodded through my tears.
Then I reached the final paragraph.
And everything changed again.
If you ever have a child with the Mercer eyes, take the child away.
Do not allow Daniel to see the baby.
Do not allow Christopher to see the baby.
And most importantly—
The sentence continued on the next page.
My hands shook as I turned it.
Do not allow the child to be taken back to Bellweather.
I stared at the words.
My phone still displayed the Bellweather address.
Midnight.
Come alone.
“No.”
Grandpa leaned closer.
“What?”
“Mom specifically said never to take my child there.”
He read the line.
His face hardened.
“Then you’re not going.”
“But Caleb might be there.”
“That’s exactly why you’re not going.”
I looked at Nora.
If Caleb was alive, I needed answers.
But I was not risking my daughter.
“I’m not taking Nora.”
Grandpa immediately shook his head.
“You’re not leaving her here either.”
“Why?”
“Because they know this house.”
“Then where?”
Grandpa thought for several seconds.
Finally he said, “Ruth.”
“Aunt Ruth?”
“She isn’t your aunt by blood, but yes.”
Grandpa’s oldest friend lived twenty minutes away.
“She doesn’t know any of this.”
“Exactly.”
Within ten minutes, we had Nora bundled into a different blanket.
I left the tracked diaper bag behind and packed supplies into one of Grandpa’s old canvas bags.
We took his truck instead of my car.
I sat low in the passenger seat with Nora.
Grandpa drove.
Neither of us spoke.
Every pair of headlights made me nervous.
Every car behind us felt suspicious.
At 11:31, we pulled into Ruth’s driveway.
She opened the door wearing a robe and slippers.
“Thomas?”
Then she saw me.
Then Nora.
Her face softened.
“Oh, Emily.”
Grandpa didn’t explain much.
“Can Nora stay here for an hour?”
Ruth looked at us carefully.
“Is someone in danger?”
Grandpa hesitated.
“Yes.”
Ruth didn’t ask another question.
“Bring her inside.”
I kissed Nora’s forehead again and again.
Leaving her felt physically painful.
“Mommy will be back.”
Her little hand closed around my finger.
For one terrible second, I considered staying.
Then Caleb’s face filled my mind.
If he had answers that could protect her, I needed them.
I handed Nora to Ruth.
Grandpa and I returned to the truck.
“I thought the message said you couldn’t come.”
“You’re driving yourself the rest of the way.”
“What?”
“I’ll get out before Bellweather.”
“Absolutely not.”
“They may refuse to show themselves if they see me.”
“You’re not standing alone on some highway at midnight.”
“Emily.”
“No.”
He almost smiled.
“You’ve always been stubborn.”
“Wonder where I got it.”
Ten minutes later, we reached an abandoned gas station.
Grandpa stopped.
“This is where I get out.”
I looked at him.
“You planned this.”
“Yes.”
He handed me the revolver.
“I don’t want that.”
“Take it.”
“I’ve never fired one.”
“I taught you when you were sixteen.”
“That was twenty years ago.”
“You remember.”
Unfortunately, I did.
I put it inside my coat pocket.
Grandpa handed me the M-2 key.
Then my mother’s letter.
“Do not take risks because of Caleb.”
“I need to know why he left.”
“You need to come home to your daughter.”
I nodded.
“Those are not the same thing.”
“I know.”
I hugged him.
Despite my anger.
Despite the lies.
Despite everything.
I hugged him.
Because some part of me was terrified it might be the last time.
Then I drove away.
Bellweather was eleven miles farther.
The road narrowed.
Streetlights disappeared.
Trees crowded both sides.
At 11:56, my GPS told me to turn onto a gravel road.
There was no sign.
Just two stone pillars almost swallowed by vines.
I turned.
The house appeared two minutes later.
It wasn’t really a house.
It was an enormous abandoned estate.
Three stories.
Dark windows.
Stone walls.
Half the roof looked damaged.
My headlights swept across a rusted metal sign.
BELLWEATHER MATERNITY RESEARCH CENTER.
My stomach dropped.
Research center?
Mom had given birth to me here?
I parked.
11:59.
The front door stood slightly open.
Every instinct told me to leave.
Then a light came on inside.
One room.
Second floor.
I stepped from the truck.
“Caleb?”
Nothing.
I walked inside.
Dust covered the floor.
Old medical signs still hung on the walls.
WARD A.
WARD B.
DELIVERY.
RESTRICTED.
The place smelled like mildew and old wood.
My phone vibrated.
UPSTAIRS.
I followed the staircase.
Each step creaked.
At the top was a long hallway.
One door stood open.
Room 217.
Inside was a single lamp.
A chair.
And a tape recorder.
No person.
“Caleb?”
Silence.
Then the tape recorder clicked.
A woman’s voice filled the room.
My mother’s voice.
I hadn’t heard it in twenty years.
My knees almost gave out.
“If Emily is hearing this, then Thomas finally opened the box.”
I covered my mouth.
Mom.
Her voice.
Older than I remembered.
Tired.
Terrified.
“Sweetheart, I am sorry.”
Tears poured down my face.
“There are things I couldn’t put in writing.”
I stepped closer to the recorder.
“Bellweather was not a hospital.”
My skin prickled.
“It was a private research facility.”
I stared through the doorway.
Research.
The Mercer Project.
“Daniel believed a rare genetic trait within his biological family could identify children connected to an inheritance that had been hidden for generations.”
I frowned.
Inheritance?
“Christopher had the trait.”
My mother’s voice continued.
“Daniel did not.”
I suddenly understood.
The eyes.
One blue.
One dark.
“Christopher was my biological father,” I whispered.
“Daniel wanted people to believe you belonged to him,” Mom continued, “because your eyes proved something Daniel could never prove himself.”
I touched my face.
My eyes were green.
Then Mom answered the question I hadn’t asked.
“You were born with the Mercer eyes, Emily.”
I froze.
“No.”
“Your eyes changed during your first year.”
I stepped closer.
“Nora’s may change too.”
My heart slammed.
How could a recording made twenty-seven years ago mention my future child?
But then Mom said:
“If your baby is born with those eyes, Daniel will know Christopher’s bloodline continued.”
The tape crackled.
“And if that happens, he will come.”
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I spun around.
Nobody.
“Caleb?”
The tape continued.
“There is something else you need to know.”
Mom’s voice broke.
“Christopher Mercer did not die.”
I stopped breathing.
“After you were born, he disappeared because he believed staying near you would put you in danger.”
My mind flashed to Caleb.
History repeating itself.
Then Mom said:
“Christopher had another child.”
My heart pounded.
“A son.”
No.
I moved closer to the recorder.
“That boy was born seven years before you.”
My stomach twisted.
Seven years older than me.
Caleb was thirty-four.
Exactly seven years older.
I couldn’t breathe.
Mom’s voice became quieter.
“If you ever meet Christopher’s son, you must understand something before anyone convinces you otherwise.”
I gripped the table.
“He is not your brother.”
I almost collapsed with relief.
Then came the next sentence.
“Because Christopher Mercer was not actually your biological father.”
I stared at the recorder.
“What?”
The tape clicked off.
“No!”
I pressed play.
Nothing.
“Come on!”
Dead.
Then a man’s voice came from the hallway.
“Your mother always had terrible timing.”
I spun around.
A figure stood in the doorway.
Tall.
Dark curls.
Cleft chin.
One blue eye.
One dark.
My entire body stopped.
“Caleb.”
He looked thinner.
A scar crossed his temple.
But it was him.
Alive.
I crossed the room before I could think.
My hand struck his face.
Hard.
He didn’t move.
“That was for disappearing.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I deserved that.”
I hit his chest.
“That was for letting me believe you were dead!”
“I never wanted—”
“You left me pregnant!”
“I know.”
“You knew where I was?”
“Yes.”
“You knew I almost lost Nora?”
His face changed.
“Nora?”
“Your daughter.”
His lips trembled.
“You named her Nora?”
“Yes.”
He covered his mouth.
And began crying.
For one dangerous second, I almost reached for him.
Then I remembered everything.
“Why did you leave?”
“Because someone showed me what happened to your parents.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
“Christopher?”
Caleb shook his head.
“No.”
I stared at him.
“My mother’s tape says Christopher had a son.”
“He did.”
“You.”
“No.”
My heart started pounding again.
“Then who are you?”
Caleb looked toward the hallway.
“We don’t have much time.”
“I am done hearing that sentence.”
“Emily—”
“Who are you?”
He stepped closer.
“The man you knew as Caleb Mercer is real.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Caleb is my name.”
“And Mercer?”
“My mother’s surname.”
“Who is your father?”
Caleb looked at me.
“Daniel.”
My stomach dropped.
“Daniel Mercer?”
“Yes.”
My mother’s adopted brother.
The man who had hunted my family.
The man she warned me about.
I stepped backward.
“You’re Daniel’s son.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know who I was when we met?”
Pain crossed his face.
“Yes.”
The word shattered something inside me.
I slapped him again.
He accepted it.
“You targeted me.”
“At first.”
“Everything was a lie.”
“No.”
“You followed me.”
“Yes.”
“You spilled my coffee on purpose.”
“Yes.”
I laughed bitterly through tears.
“Of course you did.”
“But I didn’t expect to love you.”
“Don’t.”
“I love you, Emily.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“I tried to walk away three months after we met.”
I remembered.
Caleb had disappeared for a weekend.
He claimed his mother was sick.
“I couldn’t,” he continued. “I came back because I couldn’t do what my father wanted.”
“What did Daniel want?”
Caleb looked toward my mother’s dead recorder.
“He wanted me to find out whether you carried the Mercer marker.”
“The eyes?”
“Not exactly.”
“What marker?”
“Something in your blood.”
I went cold.
“And you got me pregnant.”
“That was never part of it.”
“Convenient.”
“I swear to you.”
“Why disappear after I told you?”
“Because your pregnancy changed everything.”
“How?”
“Because I knew our baby might inherit it.”
“Nora has the eyes.”
Caleb closed his eyes.
“Oh God.”
“She has them.”
“Where is she?”
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Good.”
That answer surprised me.
Caleb looked relieved.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Why?”
“Because my father is still alive.”
I stared at him.
“You mean Daniel.”
“Yes.”
“Was that him at Grandpa’s house?”
“No.”
“Then who was it?”
Caleb’s expression hardened.
“Christopher.”
My heart pounded.
“The man Mom thought was my father?”
“Yes.”
“But the tape said he wasn’t.”
“Your mother discovered the truth shortly before she died.”
“What truth?”
Caleb stepped toward the wall.
He pulled aside an old cabinet.
Behind it was a steel door.
Two keyholes were built into the center.
One marked M-1.
The other M-2.
I stared at my key.
“Grandpa has M-1.”
“I know.”
“Then we can’t open it.”
Caleb reached into his pocket.
He held up another key.
M-1.
I stared.
“How?”
“Thomas’s isn’t the original.”
“What?”
“Your mother made him a copy.”
“Why?”
“Because she never trusted one person with everything.”
He inserted M-1.
I inserted M-2.
“What’s behind this?”
Caleb looked at me.
“The answer to who your father really was.”
We turned the keys.
A heavy click sounded.
The steel door opened.
Behind it was a small room.
Shelves lined the walls.
Boxes.
Medical files.
Photographs.
And one enormous family tree pinned to the back wall.
Caleb switched on the light.
I stepped inside.
Names stretched across generations.
Mercer.
Bennett.
Others I didn’t recognize.
Then I found my mother’s name.
Margaret Bennett.
A line extended downward.
To me.
Emily.
Beside my name were two spaces for parents.
My mother’s name appeared in one.
The other had been covered with black tape.
I reached up.
“Don’t,” Caleb said.
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because once you see it, you can’t unknow it.”
I ripped the tape away.
A name was written beneath.
I stared.
Then looked at Caleb.
“That can’t be right.”
“It is.”
“No.”
“I tested it myself.”
“No!”
I stepped away from the wall.
Because the name beside mine wasn’t Christopher Mercer.
It wasn’t Daniel.
It wasn’t even someone I knew.
It read:
MICHAEL BENNETT.
I shook my head.
“Bennett?”
Caleb nodded.
“My mother’s relative?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Before he could answer, a slow clap came from behind us.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Caleb’s face went white.
He turned.
An older man stood in the doorway.
Silver hair.
Dark coat.
One blue eye.
One nearly black.
The same man from Grandpa’s porch.
“Beautiful,” he said.
“Twenty-seven years of secrets, and Margaret still manages to make everything unnecessarily dramatic.”
Caleb moved in front of me.
“Stay behind me.”
The older man smiled.
“Still pretending to protect her, Caleb?”
“Christopher,” Caleb said.
So it was him.
Christopher Mercer.
The man my mother once believed was my biological father.
Christopher looked at me.
“You have your mother’s stubbornness.”
“Who is Michael Bennett?”
His smile disappeared.
“You really don’t know?”
“No.”
Christopher looked at Caleb.
“You didn’t tell her?”
“I wanted her to see the proof first.”
“Tell me what?”
Neither man answered.
I shouted.
“WHO IS MICHAEL BENNETT?”
Christopher walked toward the family tree.
He touched the name with one finger.
“Michael Bennett was the reason Bellweather existed.”
“What does that mean?”
“He funded the original research.”
“Why?”
“To find his missing daughter.”
I stared.
“What daughter?”
Christopher looked directly at me.
“Your mother.”
My knees weakened.
“Grandpa is my mother’s father.”
Christopher shook his head.
“No.”
“Thomas raised Margaret.”
I could barely hear him over my heartbeat.
“But Thomas Bennett was never Margaret’s biological father.”
I thought about Grandpa.
Everything he had done.
Everything he had hidden.
“Then Michael Bennett was my mother’s father?”
Christopher smiled sadly.
“No, Emily.”
He pointed at the family tree.
“Look carefully.”
I did.
And suddenly I saw it.
The line from Michael Bennett did not connect to Margaret.
It connected directly to me.
My blood went cold.
“But that means—”
“Yes.”
Christopher’s voice became almost a whisper.
“Michael Bennett was your biological father.”
I stared at him.
“Then who was he?”
Christopher’s expression changed.
“He was Thomas Bennett’s younger brother.”
My mouth fell open.
Grandpa’s brother.
A man I had never heard existed.
“And your mother,” Christopher continued, “was not simply trying to hide you from Daniel.”
“Why else would she hide me?”
“Because when you were born, Michael Bennett was one of the most powerful men in the state.”
“Was?”
“He vanished the night you were born.”
My skin prickled.
“Vanished?”
“No body.”
Caleb nodded toward the shelves.
“There are records.”
I looked at Christopher.
“Is Michael alive?”
Christopher didn’t answer.
“Is my father alive?”
Before he could respond, every light in the building went out.
Darkness swallowed us.
Caleb grabbed my arm.
“Don’t move.”
A second later, red emergency lights flickered on.
Somewhere downstairs, a door slammed.
Christopher’s face changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
“We need to leave.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the hallway.
“Because he found us.”
“Who?”
Christopher pulled something from inside his coat.
A gun.
Caleb did the same.
I backed away.
“Who found us?”
Then a voice came through the building’s ancient speaker system.
An old man’s voice.
Calm.
Controlled.
Almost amused.
“Emily.”
Every muscle in my body locked.
Christopher whispered, “No.”
The speaker crackled.
“I’ve waited twenty-seven years to hear you walk through these halls again.”
My throat tightened.
“Who is that?”
Christopher looked at me.
“The man your mother spent the rest of her life running from.”
The speaker came alive again.
“And I understand you’ve brought me something even more valuable than yourself.”
My heart stopped.
Nora.
“No.”
I grabbed Caleb.
“He knows about Nora.”
Christopher turned toward me.
“Where is the baby?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Good.”
The voice laughed over the speakers.
“You still don’t understand.”
A monitor mounted on the wall suddenly flickered to life.
Static.
Then an image appeared.
Grandpa.
He was sitting in a chair.
His hands were tied behind his back.
Blood ran from his forehead.
“GRANDPA!”
His head lifted weakly.
“Emily?”
My hand flew to my mouth.
The camera pulled wider.
Someone stood behind him.
Only a hand was visible.
A hand holding the M-1 key Grandpa had kept for twenty years.
Then the old man’s voice came through the speakers.
“Thomas and I have unfinished business.”
I screamed toward the ceiling.
“Who are you?”
Silence.
Then the camera shifted.
The man stepped into view.
Silver hair.
A scar along his jaw.
And eyes that made my blood turn to ice.
One blue.
One almost black.
Christopher staggered backward.
“That isn’t possible.”
Caleb whispered, “Oh my God.”
I stared at the stranger on the monitor.
“What?”
Christopher looked at me.
For the first time since entering the building, he looked genuinely terrified.
“That man is supposed to be dead.”
“WHO IS HE?”
The stranger on the screen smiled.
Then he answered for himself.
“My name is Michael Bennett.”
My heart stopped.
The man leaned toward the camera.
“And Emily…”
His smile vanished.
“…I’m your father.”
Before I could breathe, another figure was dragged into view beside Grandpa.
A woman.
Her wrists were bound.
Her mouth covered with tape.
For one second, I didn’t recognize her.
Then Christopher made a broken sound.
Caleb dropped his gun.
And I stared at a face I had spent twenty years looking at in the photograph above Grandpa’s fireplace.
Older.
Thinner.
But unmistakable.
My mother’s face.
The woman who had supposedly died when I was seven lifted her tear-filled eyes toward the camera.
And suddenly every lie Grandpa had ever told me became smaller than the one staring back at me.
My mother was alive.
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