“You need to give me that baby before Jason comes back.”
I stared at the person standing in the doorway.
My father.
Robert.
He was holding an old photograph in one hand.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
Emily couldn’t either.
Dad stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him.
“Give me the baby, Sarah.”
My heart started hammering.
“Don’t come any closer.”
He stopped.
The man standing in front of me didn’t look like the father I’d known my entire life.
Dad had always been calm.
Predictable.
The kind of man who checked every door twice before going to bed and called me whenever a storm was coming even though I was thirty-four years old.
But right now his shirt was buttoned incorrectly.
His hair wasn’t combed.
And his hands were trembling.
Emily immediately moved between him and the bassinet.
“Robert, what are you doing here?”
He ignored her.
His eyes remained fixed on me.
“Sarah, where is Jason?”
“Why?”
“Where is he?”
“You answer my question first.”
Dad looked at the photograph in his hand.
Then he whispered:
“He found the box, didn’t he?”
My stomach dropped.
“How do you know about the box?”
Dad closed his eyes.
“Damn it.”
Emily stepped closer to me.
“Someone needs to start explaining what’s happening.”
Dad looked toward the hallway.
“We don’t have much time.”
“For what?”
He lowered his voice.
“For Jason to come back.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Jason is the baby’s father.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you acting like he’s dangerous?”
Dad looked at me.
“I’m not afraid of Jason.”
“Then who are you afraid of?”
He didn’t answer.
I remembered Mom’s warning.
Don’t let anyone from our family into that hospital room.
And Jason’s warning had been almost identical.
Not Mom.
Not Dad.
Not Aunt Carol.
Not Uncle Michael.
Nobody.
Yet Dad was standing right in front of me.
“Show me the photograph,” I said.
He tightened his grip on it.
“Sarah—”
“Show me.”
Slowly, Dad walked toward the bed.
Emily positioned herself beside the bassinet.
Dad handed me the photograph.
It was faded.
The edges were curled and yellow.
But the image was clear enough.
A young woman sat in a wooden rocking chair.
My mother.
Except she couldn’t have been older than seventeen.
She looked exhausted.
Terrified.
And in her arms was a newborn wrapped in a white blanket.
Rebecca.
My sister.
The sister Jason and I had never known existed.
I stared at her tiny face.
She had dark hair.
A little round nose.
One hand visible above the blanket.
Then I noticed something in the background.
A mirror.
Mom’s back was reflected in it.
And standing behind her was a man.
My grandfather.
I looked closer.
Someone else was beside him.
Only half of the person’s body was visible.
A woman’s arm.
Part of a dress.
Nothing more.
“Who took this?”
I asked.
Dad didn’t answer.
“Dad.”
“I did.”
My eyes snapped toward him.
“You?”
He nodded.
“I was eighteen.”
The timeline hit me immediately.
“You knew Mom then?”
“We’d been dating for almost a year.”
My chest tightened.
“So Rebecca was yours?”
Dad looked at the floor.
“No.”
Emily inhaled sharply.
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Rebecca wasn’t my daughter.”
“Then whose daughter was she?”
Dad sat down.
For the first time in my life, my father suddenly looked old.
“Your mother never told me.”
I shook my head.
“That makes no sense.”
“She was pregnant when I met her.”
My mind struggled to keep up.
“She was already pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“And you stayed?”
“I loved her.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“She was terrified. Her parents were furious. This was 1978, Sarah. In our little town, an unmarried seventeen-year-old girl having a baby wasn’t something her family wanted people talking about.”
“So Grandpa hid it.”
Dad nodded.
“He sent your mother away for several months. Everyone was told she was staying with relatives.”
“And Rebecca?”
“She was born at home.”
Emily looked horrified.
“Why?”
“Your grandfather didn’t want hospital records.”
The room seemed colder.
I looked again at the photograph.
Three days.
Rebecca had lived for only three days.
“What happened to her?”
Dad didn’t answer.
“Jason found Grandpa’s letter.”
His face changed.
“How much did he read?”
“Enough.”
Dad stood abruptly.
“You need to call him.”
“I already tried.”
“Call again.”
“Why?”
“Because that letter doesn’t tell the whole story.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know?”
“Because I was there.”
My heart stopped.
“You were there when Rebecca died?”
Dad looked directly into my eyes.
“Yes.”
Emily covered her mouth.
I couldn’t speak.
Dad walked toward the window.
“For years, I convinced myself I had remembered it wrong.”
“Remembered what?”
“The night she died.”
My hands began shaking.
“Tell me.”
“Sarah—”
“Tell me what happened to my sister.”
Dad remained silent.
I raised my voice.
“Tell me!”
He turned around.
“Rebecca wouldn’t stop crying.”
That wasn’t the answer I’d expected.
“What?”
“She had been crying for hours. Your mother was exhausted. Your grandmother was trying to calm her. Your grandfather kept pacing through the house.”
Dad swallowed.
“He hated the crying.”
A terrible feeling spread through my chest.
“What did he do?”
“Nothing at first.”
Dad’s voice became distant.
“Then sometime after midnight, your mother finally fell asleep.”
I couldn’t look away from him.
“I was downstairs with your grandfather.”
“Why were you there?”
“I’d sneaked into the house because your mother asked me to come.”
Dad paused.
“Then we heard Rebecca crying again.”
My throat tightened.
“Grandpa went upstairs.”
Dad nodded.
“I waited.”
“For how long?”
“Maybe ten minutes.”
“And?”
“When he came back downstairs, the crying had stopped.”
Nobody spoke.
My pulse was pounding in my ears.
“What did he say?”
“He said the baby was sleeping.”
Dad’s voice cracked.
“I believed him.”
“You believed him?”
“I was eighteen, Sarah.”
“What happened next?”
“About twenty minutes later, your mother screamed.”
Emily gripped the back of the chair.
Dad looked down.
“Rebecca wasn’t breathing.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Did you call an ambulance?”
“I tried.”
“Tried?”
“Your grandfather stopped me.”
Anger exploded through me.
“What do you mean he stopped you?”
“He ripped the phone out of my hand.”
“Why?”
“He said it was too late.”
“That wasn’t his decision!”
“I know.”
“Then what happened?”
Dad’s eyes filled with tears.
“He told us Rebecca had died in her sleep.”
“And everyone just accepted that?”
“No.”
Dad looked at me.
“Your mother didn’t.”
My breathing slowed.
“What did Mom think happened?”
“She thought her father killed Rebecca.”
The words seemed to suck every bit of air from the room.
Emily whispered:
“Oh my God.”
I stared at the photograph again.
My grandfather.
The man who taught Jason and me how to fish.
The man who bought us bicycles.
The man whose attic contained that box.
“He killed a newborn?”
“I don’t know.”
“But Grandpa’s letter says her death wasn’t natural.”
Dad nodded.
“That’s what he believed by the end of his life.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Dad’s expression changed.
“Your grandfather didn’t write that letter because he was confessing.”
“Then why?”
“Because years later, he started believing someone else had killed Rebecca.”
A chill ran through me.
“Who?”
Dad hesitated.
Then looked toward the photograph.
“The woman standing behind your mother.”
I looked down.
The half-visible figure.
“Who is she?”
Dad didn’t answer.
“Dad.”
“Your grandmother’s younger sister.”
I tried to remember.
“Aunt Margaret?”
He nodded.
Margaret.
I’d met her maybe three times when I was little.
She moved away before Jason and I started school.
Mom almost never talked about her.
“Why would she hurt Rebecca?”
“I don’t know if she did.”
“But Grandpa thought she did?”
“Eventually.”
“What changed his mind?”
Dad pointed toward the photograph.
“The mark.”
I looked toward the bassinet.
My niece was sleeping peacefully.
That dark-red circular mark with three thin lines remained beneath her shoulder blade.
“Rebecca had the same mark.”
“Yes.”
“Why did that matter?”
Dad looked directly at me.
“Because Rebecca wasn’t the first baby in the family born with it.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
Dad sat again.
“Your grandfather had a younger sister.”
“I’ve never heard about her.”
“Almost nobody has.”
“What was her name?”
“Eleanor.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died as an infant.”
I closed my eyes.
“Let me guess.”
Dad nodded.
“She had the mark.”
Emily whispered:
“How many babies are we talking about?”
Dad looked at her.
“At least three now.”
Eleanor.
Rebecca.
My niece.
Three generations.
Same strange mark.
“But a birthmark doesn’t kill someone,” Emily said.
“No,” Dad replied.
“It doesn’t.”
“Then why is everyone terrified of it?”
Dad didn’t answer.
My phone rang.
Jason.
I answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
“Driving.”
“Dad is here.”
Silence.
Then Jason shouted:
“Get him out!”
Dad stepped toward me.
“Put it on speaker.”
I did.
“Jason,” Dad said.
“You lied to us,” Jason snapped.
“Yes.”
“You knew about Rebecca.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about the mark.”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
Then Jason asked:
“Did you know about Eleanor?”
Dad’s expression changed.
“How do you know that name?”
“There was another photograph.”
Dad went still.
“What photograph?”
“In the bottom of the box.”
Dad’s face drained of color.
“What was in it?”
“A funeral.”
Dad closed his eyes.
“Jason, listen to me. Whatever you found, bring it here.”
“No.”
“Jason—”
“No more secrets.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“That’s what Grandpa wrote too.”
Dad flinched.
Jason continued.
“And apparently that’s what everyone in this family says right before they lie.”
I couldn’t disagree.
“What else did you find?” I asked.
Jason went quiet.
“Jason?”
“A journal.”
“Whose?”
“Grandma’s.”
Dad whispered:
“No.”
Jason heard him.
“Oh, you know about that too?”
“Jason, do not read that while you’re driving.”
“I already read enough.”
“What did it say?”
My brother took a breath.
“Rebecca didn’t die upstairs.”
Dad’s face changed completely.
“What?”
“Grandma wrote that she was still alive when Grandpa brought her downstairs.”
Dad shook his head.
“No.”
“You saw her, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“You were there.”
“I never saw him carrying her.”
“Grandma says you did.”
Dad looked stunned.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because your grandmother wasn’t there.”
Silence.
I felt my stomach twist.
“What do you mean Grandma wasn’t there?”
“She had left hours earlier.”
Jason laughed once.
It was a terrible, humorless sound.
“Then somebody is lying.”
Dad stepped toward the phone.
“Jason, what exactly does that journal say?”
“It says Grandma was standing in the upstairs hallway at 12:47 a.m. when Grandpa carried Rebecca downstairs.”
Dad shook his head.
“No.”
“It says she followed him.”
“No.”
“It says you were waiting at the bottom of the stairs.”
“Jason, stop.”
“And then it says something really interesting.”
Dad didn’t move.
Jason’s voice lowered.
“It says Rebecca was breathing.”
My father gripped the bed rail.
“She wasn’t.”
“You just said you never saw her.”
Dad froze.
The contradiction hung between us.
I stared at him.
“You said you never saw Grandpa carrying her.”
Dad’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
“But now you’re saying she wasn’t breathing.”
“Sarah—”
“How could you know?”
He backed away.
“It’s complicated.”
My heart began pounding.
“Were you lying to us?”
“No.”
“Then explain it.”
Before Dad could answer, the door opened.
A nurse entered.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
She looked at Emily.
“The pediatrician would like to speak with both parents.”
Emily immediately stood.
“Is something wrong?”
“The imaging results came back.”
Jason heard everything through the phone.
“What did they find?”
The nurse hesitated.
“Dr. Patel should explain.”
Emily looked at me.
“I’m going.”
“I’ll come.”
“No, Sarah. You need to rest.”
There was no chance I was staying behind.
I pushed myself upright.
The nurse protested, but eventually brought a wheelchair.
Dad followed us into the hallway.
Jason remained on speaker.
We were taken into a consultation room.
Dr. Patel was waiting.
She had several scans displayed on a monitor.
Emily sat down.
“Please tell me she’s okay.”
“The baby is stable.”
“But?”
Dr. Patel turned toward the monitor.
“The mark appears to be superficial.”
Emily exhaled.
“That’s good.”
“Yes.”
Then Dr. Patel hesitated.
“But during the imaging, we noticed something unrelated.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
She enlarged one of the scans.
“There is a small abnormality near the baby’s left shoulder.”
Emily leaned forward.
“What kind of abnormality?”
“At first, we thought it might be calcification.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Jason’s voice came through the phone.
“What does it look like?”
Dr. Patel glanced toward me.
I held the phone closer.
She continued.
“It’s extremely small.”
Then she pointed toward the screen.
“But its shape is unusual.”
My father suddenly stepped backward.
I noticed.
“Dad?”
He didn’t answer.
Dr. Patel continued.
“It appears to be a tiny metallic object beneath the skin.”
Emily stared at her.
“A WHAT?”
“A foreign object.”
“That isn’t possible. She was born hours ago.”
“I understand.”
“So how could something metallic be inside her?”
“We’re trying to determine that.”
My father turned toward the door.
I grabbed his wrist.
“Where are you going?”
“Sarah.”
“You know something.”
“No.”
“You recognized it.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
His eyes met mine.
For the first time, I saw something beyond fear.
Guilt.
“Dad.”
His shoulders dropped.
Then he whispered:
“I hoped they wouldn’t find it.”
Emily stood.
“What did you just say?”
Dad closed his eyes.
“I hoped they wouldn’t find it.”
Jason shouted through the phone:
“FIND WHAT?”
Dad looked toward the scan.
Then at me.
“Your grandfather kept something after Rebecca died.”
My throat tightened.
“What?”
“A tiny metal disk.”
The room became silent.
“It was removed during the examination of her body.”
Emily shook her head.
“No.”
Dad continued.
“It had been beneath the mark.”
I felt sick.
Jason’s voice came quietly through the speaker.
“Where is it now?”
Dad didn’t answer.
“Dad.”
“Your grandfather kept it in the box.”
Jason went silent.
Then I heard movement on his end of the call.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Looking.”
A few seconds passed.
Then:
“There isn’t any metal disk here.”
Dad stared at the phone.
“It should be inside a small velvet pouch.”
“I see the pouch.”
“Open it.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Empty.”
Dad whispered:
“Then someone took it.”
Emily shook her head.
“This is impossible. You’re saying someone somehow put the same kind of object inside my daughter?”
Dr. Patel raised a hand.
“We cannot conclude these objects are the same without examining both.”
She was right.
But Dad looked terrified.
Then Jason spoke.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“There’s something written inside the pouch.”
Dad stepped closer.
“What does it say?”
Jason read slowly.
“Three lines.”
A pause.
“Three children.”
Another pause.
“The fourth ends it.”
Nobody moved.
Emily looked at her daughter through the glass panel in the door.
“Our daughter is the third.”
Dad shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
“No, she isn’t.”
I stared at him.
“Eleanor. Rebecca. The baby. That’s three.”
Dad’s voice trembled.
“You’re forgetting someone.”
“Who?”
He looked directly at me.
“You.”
My blood went cold.
“What are you talking about?”
Dad’s eyes filled with tears.
“You weren’t born alone, Sarah.”
I almost laughed.
“Of course I wasn’t. Jason is my twin.”
Dad shook his head.
“No.”
My smile disappeared.
“What?”
“Your mother was carrying triplets.”
Jason stopped breathing on the phone.
Emily whispered:
“Triplets?”
Dad nodded.
“You and Jason weren’t the only babies born that night.”
I stared at him.
“Who was the third?”
Dad couldn’t look at me.
“Her name was Grace.”
The room tilted.
I gripped the wheelchair.
“I had a sister?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
Dad’s voice broke.
“She lived eleven minutes.”
Tears immediately filled my eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because your mother couldn’t bear it.”
“Did Grace have the mark?”
Dad nodded.
My stomach dropped.
“And the metal object?”
Another nod.
Emily slowly sat down.
Jason whispered through the phone:
“That makes our daughter the fourth.”
Nobody answered.
Then Dad looked toward the nursery.
And suddenly he ran.
“Dad!”
He sprinted into the hallway.
Emily and I followed as quickly as we could.
“What are you doing?”
He reached the nursery window.
Then stopped so abruptly that Emily nearly collided with him.
His face went blank.
I looked through the glass.
The bassinet was empty.
Emily screamed.
“WHERE IS MY BABY?”
Nurses began rushing toward us.
Dr. Patel shouted something behind me.
Then one nurse looked at the empty bassinet and went pale.
“She was here thirty seconds ago.”
Emily grabbed her.
“Who took her?”
“I—I don’t know.”
Jason was screaming through my phone.
“What happened? Sarah! WHAT HAPPENED?”
An alarm began sounding through the maternity ward.
Security doors locked automatically.
Hospital staff ran toward the elevators.
Then my phone vibrated.
A photograph had arrived from an unknown number.
My hands shook as I opened it.
It showed Emily’s newborn daughter wrapped in her hospital blanket.
Someone was holding her.
But only the person’s hands were visible.
Beneath the photograph was one sentence.
SHE WAS NEVER YOURS TO KEEP.
Emily made a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream.
Then another message appeared.
This time, there was an attachment.
An old photograph.
Black and white.
Four adults standing outside my grandfather’s house in 1978.
Grandpa.
Grandma.
Aunt Margaret.
And a fourth person whose face had been scratched away.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written five words.
THE FATHER OF ALL FOUR.
I stared at those words.
Then at my father.
He looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“Dad.”
He didn’t answer.
“Who is the fourth man?”
My father whispered:
“He’s supposed to be dead.”
Jason heard him.
“Who?”
Dad looked at me.
And before he could answer, the hospital intercom crackled overhead.
“Security alert. Maternity wing.”
Then a nurse came running around the corner.
“We found the person who took the baby!”
Emily nearly collapsed.
“Where?”
The nurse pointed toward the emergency stairwell.
“Security stopped someone on the third floor.”
We rushed toward the doors.
Two security officers were coming up the corridor.
Between them walked a woman.
She was nearly eighty.
Silver hair.
Thin face.
Dark coat.
And in her arms was the baby.
My father stopped dead.
The woman smiled when she saw him.
“Hello, Robert.”
Dad whispered one name.
“Margaret.”
My great-aunt looked down at the newborn.
Then she looked directly at me.
“You all believed Rebecca died because of the mark.”
Her smile disappeared.
“She didn’t.”
My heart pounded.
“Then why did she die?”
Margaret’s eyes moved toward my father.
“Ask Robert.”
I turned toward Dad.
Margaret continued.
“And while you’re asking questions, Sarah, ask him why Grace only lived eleven minutes.”
Dad looked like he might collapse.
“What are you saying?”
I whispered.
Margaret stared directly into my eyes.
“I’m saying your father knows exactly what happened to both babies.”
She paused.
“Because he was there for both deaths.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
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