PART 4 — WHAT MARK DID THE NIGHT BEFORE ETHAN DIED
“But I think I do now.”
Claire’s words hung in the room.
Mark didn’t move.
Neither did I.
For several seconds, the only sound was the clock above the kitchen doorway.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
I stared at my husband.
“What happened that night?”
Mark looked toward the window.
“Nothing.”
Claire laughed.
It wasn’t a normal laugh.
It was hollow.
Almost frightened.
“Nothing?”
“Claire…”
“Our son was dying, and you disappeared for almost four hours.”
“I told you where I went.”
“You told me you went home for clothes.”
“I did.”
“We lived twenty minutes from the hospital.”
Mark said nothing.
Claire stepped closer.
“Where were you for the other three hours?”
His jaw tightened.
“I don’t remember.”
I stared at him.
“You remember enough to burn a medical report eight months later.”
He looked at me.
“Rebecca…”
“No.”
I held up my hand.
“Don’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to calm me down instead of answering me.”
He lowered his eyes.
Claire suddenly grabbed her phone.
“What are you doing?” Mark asked.
“Checking something.”
“What?”
She ignored him.
Her fingers moved quickly across the screen.
I watched her expression change.
“What are you looking for?”
“St. Matthew’s.”
Mark’s face tightened.
Claire looked up.
“St. Matthew’s wasn’t the hospital Ethan was treated at.”
“I know.”
“Then why would there be a report from there?”
Mark didn’t answer.
Claire turned to me.
“Ethan was treated at Children’s Memorial.”
“Then what is St. Matthew’s?”
“A different hospital across town.”
My stomach twisted.
“Mark?”
He walked toward the kitchen.
“I need water.”
Claire blocked him.
“No.”
“Move.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Tell us.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“You burned a report.”
“It was nine years ago.”
“That doesn’t make it disappear!”
Mark slammed his fist against the counter.
I jumped.
He immediately froze.
My hand went protectively to my stomach.
His expression collapsed.
“I’m sorry.”
I stepped backward.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“But you did.”
“I know.”
Claire stared at him.
“You were always like this.”
He looked at her.
“What does that mean?”
“You think if something hurts enough, you can refuse to talk about it until everyone else gets tired.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither was burying our son with questions I didn’t know I should’ve been asking.”
That silenced him.
Claire’s voice softened.
“Mark, please.”
He stared at the floor.
“Where did you go?”
For a moment, I thought he might finally answer.
Instead he whispered,
“St. Matthew’s.”
Claire closed her eyes.
I felt my pulse quicken.
“Why?”
Mark pulled out a chair and sat down.
Suddenly he looked older.
Not by a few years.
By decades.
“I went to see my mother.”
Claire stared at him.
“Your mother?”
He nodded.
“She was at St. Matthew’s?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Mark rubbed his hands together.
“She’d been admitted.”
“For what?”
He didn’t answer.
Claire frowned.
“I spoke to Eleanor that week.”
Mark looked up.
“She didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“She’d collapsed.”
“When?”
“The afternoon before Ethan died.”
Claire’s face changed.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Because you were sitting beside your dying child.”
“My dying child was her grandson!”
“I know.”
“No, apparently I don’t know anything!”
Mark stood.
“My mother begged me not to tell you.”
Claire stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because she didn’t want you leaving Ethan.”
Claire shook her head.
“That doesn’t explain the report.”
“No.”
“Then explain it.”
Mark walked toward the window.
“My mother had been having heart problems.”
Claire frowned.
“Heart problems?”
“That’s what she thought.”
“What was it really?”
Mark looked at us.
“The same condition.”
The room went silent.
I instinctively touched my stomach again.
Claire whispered,
“Your mother had it?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does not exactly mean?”
“She carried the mutation.”
Claire sat down.
“You knew?”
“That night.”
My stomach dropped.
“You found out that night?”
He nodded.
“My mother had been keeping records from Nathan’s illness.”
His dead brother.
The six-year-old nobody had ever told me existed.
Mark continued.
“When Ethan started getting sick, she suspected there might be a connection.”
Claire stared at him.
“She told you that?”
“Eventually.”
“When?”
Mark hesitated.
“When Ethan was about ten months old.”
Claire stood so quickly her chair fell backward.
“You knew for FOUR MONTHS before his diagnosis?”
“No!”
“You just said…”
“I knew she suspected it. That’s different.”
“You told the doctors there was no family history!”
“I was scared!”
“Stop saying that!”
Claire was sobbing now.
“Being scared doesn’t erase what you did!”
“I KNOW!”
Their voices collided.
I stepped between them.
“Enough.”
They stopped.
I looked at Mark.
“What happened at St. Matthew’s?”
He breathed deeply.
“My mother gave me a folder.”
“The report?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Records about Nathan.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She wanted Ethan’s doctors to see them.”
Claire covered her mouth.
“You never gave them the records.”
Mark looked away.
“Oh my God.”
“I was going to.”
“You never did.”
“I couldn’t.”
“WHY?”
Mark’s face crumpled.
“Because I read them.”
Nobody spoke.
I felt something cold move through me.
“What was in them?”
Mark’s lips trembled.
“Something about my father.”
Claire frowned.
“What?”
“My father wasn’t Nathan’s biological father.”
Claire blinked.
I wasn’t sure I understood why that mattered.
Then Mark continued.
“My mother had Nathan before she met the man I grew up calling Dad.”
“Okay…”
“She’d always told everyone Nathan’s father disappeared.”
Claire slowly sat down.
“But?”
“But he didn’t.”
Mark’s hands were shaking.
“He died.”
“From the condition?”
Mark nodded.
Claire whispered,
“So that’s where it came from.”
“That’s what I thought.”
I looked between them.
“But if Nathan had a different father…”
The sentence died before I finished it.
Claire realized it too.
She stared at Mark.
“Then you shouldn’t carry it.”
Mark nodded slowly.
“Exactly.”
The room became unbearably still.
I whispered,
“Unless your mother carried it.”
“That’s what the doctors assumed.”
“But?”
Mark closed his eyes.
“Her testing came back negative.”
My breath caught.
Claire shook her head.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“No.”
“If Eleanor didn’t carry it, and Nathan had a different biological father…”
“I know.”
“Then how could you have passed the same condition to Ethan?”
Mark said nothing.
Claire stared at him.
Then her face changed.
“That’s why Dr. Hayes asked me about Ethan’s paternity.”
Mark nodded.
I felt dizzy.
“Wait.”
I pulled out a chair.
“You’re telling me the genetics didn’t make sense?”
“No.”
“And that’s what the report said?”
“Partly.”
Claire’s voice became very quiet.
“What else did it say?”
Mark stared at her.
“That Ethan’s genetic profile didn’t match mine the way they expected.”
Claire went completely still.
“I never cheated on you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why…”
“I didn’t think Ethan wasn’t mine.”
“What did you think?”
Mark looked toward the floor.
“I thought the hospital had made a mistake.”
Claire stared at him.
“What kind of mistake?”
“With the samples.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did they?”
“I don’t know.”
“But the report…”
“The report recommended additional testing.”
Claire’s voice cracked.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mark looked at her.
“Because Ethan was already dead.”
“That wasn’t your decision to make!”
“I couldn’t put you through more.”
“You mean you couldn’t put yourself through more.”
He didn’t deny it.
Claire pressed both hands against her temples.
“All these years…”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
“I am.”
“Don’t say you’re sorry like that fixes anything.”
“It doesn’t.”
She looked at him.
“Did you ever do the additional testing?”
Mark hesitated.
That hesitation was enough.
I leaned forward.
“Mark.”
He nodded.
Claire’s face went white.
“When?”
“Eight months after Ethan died.”
“The St. Matthew’s report?”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“You said you burned it.”
“My copy.”
“But you read it first.”
“Yes.”
Claire was barely breathing.
“What did it say?”
Mark’s eyes filled with tears.
“I can’t.”
She stood.
“What did it say?”
“I can’t do this.”
“You already did this!”
Claire grabbed his shirt.
“Nine years ago!”
Mark didn’t resist.
She shook him.
“What did that report say about my son?”
“Claire…”
“Tell me!”
I had never witnessed grief turn into rage so quickly.
“Was Ethan yours?”
Mark closed his eyes.
Claire stopped shaking him.
Her hands fell.
“Mark?”
He whispered,
“Yes.”
She stared at him.
“Then what?”
“He was mine.”
“Then WHAT?”
Mark’s shoulders shook.
“The problem wasn’t Ethan.”
I felt my heart pounding.
Claire whispered,
“What does that mean?”
Mark looked at her.
“The additional testing confirmed you were Ethan’s mother.”
Claire nodded slowly.
“And you were his father.”
“Yes.”
“Then what was wrong?”
Mark couldn’t speak.
I suddenly understood.
Or at least I thought I did.
“The problem was Mark’s test.”
He looked at me.
Claire turned toward him.
“What was wrong with your test?”
Mark wiped his face.
“It showed something I wasn’t prepared for.”
“What?”
“My DNA didn’t match the original childhood records my mother had given the doctors.”
Claire frowned.
“Whose childhood records?”
“Mine.”
Silence.
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
Mark’s voice was almost inaudible.
“It means the medical records I’d been given as a child weren’t actually mine.”
Claire blinked.
“Then whose were they?”
Mark looked at her.
“Nathan’s.”
His dead brother.
I shook my head.
“I’m confused.”
“So was I.”
He sat down.
“My mother had mixed our medical histories together for years.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know.”
“And you never asked her?”
“I did.”
“What did she say?”
Mark looked toward the hallway as though considering escape.
Then he whispered,
“She told me not to ask questions about my birth.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed.
“Your birth?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Mark looked at me.
“Because she wasn’t my biological mother.”
I felt the room tilt.
Claire actually stumbled backward.
“What?”
“The woman I call Mom adopted me.”
“Mark…”
“I didn’t know.”
“How could you not know?”
“It wasn’t a legal adoption.”
My skin prickled.
“What does that mean?”
He looked at me.
“It means there wasn’t supposed to be a record.”
Claire whispered,
“Where did you come from?”
“I don’t know.”
“You never found out?”
“I tried.”
“After Ethan died?”
“Yes.”
“What did you find?”
Mark stared at the table.
“Nothing that made sense.”
I thought about the doctor calling at midnight.
The Sunday appointment.
The report.
The secrecy.
There was clearly still more.
“Why did you burn the report?”
“Because it had a name.”
Claire leaned forward.
“What name?”
Mark didn’t answer.
“Your biological mother?”
He shook his head.
“Then whose?”
Mark stared at me.
“A physician.”
Claire froze.
“Who?”
“Someone who signed paperwork connected to my birth.”
I felt dread settle over me.
“Was it Dr. Hayes?”
“No.”
I exhaled.
“Who was it?”
Mark swallowed.
“Dr. Richard Vale.”
Claire sat down.
I didn’t recognize the name.
But apparently she did.
Her face lost all color.
“No.”
Mark nodded.
“Yes.”
“Who’s Richard Vale?” I asked.
Claire didn’t answer.
“Claire?”
She stared at Mark.
“Tell her.”
Mark whispered,
“He was Ethan’s first pediatrician.”
My stomach dropped.
“The doctor who treated your son?”
“Before Hayes.”
“Why would the doctor who treated Ethan have paperwork connected to your birth decades earlier?”
“That’s what I wanted to know.”
“And?”
“He disappeared.”
“What do you mean disappeared?”
“Closed his practice. Sold his house. Nobody knew where he went.”
“When?”
Mark looked at Claire.
“Three weeks after Ethan died.”
Claire’s hand covered her mouth.
“You never told me.”
“I didn’t want you chasing ghosts.”
“You mean you didn’t want me discovering what you were hiding.”
Mark said nothing.
Claire reached for her phone again.
“What are you doing?”
“Searching his name.”
“I’ve done that.”
“Nine years ago.”
She typed quickly.
I sat beside her.
There were several Richard Vales.
Doctors.
Professors.
Businessmen.
None seemed connected.
Then Claire stopped.
“Oh.”
“What?”
She enlarged something.
An obituary.
DR. RICHARD ALAN VALE
Age 78.
Died six months ago.
Mark took the phone.
“That’s him.”
My pulse accelerated.
Claire scrolled.
“He moved to Oregon.”
Mark read silently.
“There’s a surviving daughter.”
“Who?”
Claire scrolled lower.
Then she froze.
Her eyes moved from the phone to Mark.
“What?”
She didn’t answer.
“Claire.”
She handed me the phone.
I read the obituary.
Beloved father of Dr. Melissa Vale…
The name meant nothing.
Then I read the next line.
…and grandfather of Dr. Samuel Hayes.
I stopped breathing.
“Hayes?”
Mark grabbed the phone.
“No.”
Claire whispered,
“Dr. Hayes was Richard Vale’s grandson.”
The doctor who treated Ethan.
The doctor who had called me tonight.
The doctor opening his office on Sunday.
The doctor who apparently possessed a report Mark thought he’d buried.
Suddenly none of this felt accidental.
Mark stood.
“We’re not going tomorrow.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“You’re not going.”
I almost laughed.
“You don’t decide that.”
“Rebecca, listen to me.”
“No.”
“If Hayes knew his grandfather was involved…”
“That’s exactly why I’m going.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Neither do you!”
Claire looked at Mark.
“She’s right.”
“Stay out of this.”
“No.”
Claire stood beside me.
“If Hayes knows something about Ethan, we deserve to hear it.”
Mark shook his head.
“Something isn’t right.”
I stared at him.
“For once, we agree.”
He paced across the kitchen.
Then he suddenly stopped.
“What time did Hayes call?”
I looked at my phone.
“11:47.”
“And he said an alert brought my name into his review queue?”
“Yes.”
Mark frowned.
“Why tonight?”
“Maybe because my records were uploaded.”
“At nearly midnight on a Saturday?”
I hadn’t thought about that.
Claire looked uneasy.
“Maybe the system is automatic.”
“Maybe.”
Mark took out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling the clinic’s main number.”
He dialed.
An automated message answered.
Thank you for calling Hayes Maternal-Fetal Medicine. Our office hours are Monday through Friday…
Mark hung up.
“That proves nothing,” I said.
“I know.”
He searched again.
Then he dialed another number.
“Who are you calling?”
“The hospital.”
A receptionist answered.
Mark asked whether Dr. Samuel Hayes was on call.
He waited.
His face slowly changed.
“What?”
He thanked the receptionist and hung up.
“What did she say?”
Mark looked at me.
“Hayes isn’t on call this weekend.”
“So?”
“He isn’t scheduled to be at the hospital tomorrow.”
Claire frowned.
“He said his office.”
“I know.”
Mark looked at me.
“Call the number back.”
I opened my recent calls.
Unknown number.
No caller ID.
I pressed it anyway.
The call failed.
I tried again.
Nothing.
Claire whispered,
“Maybe he blocked outgoing callbacks.”
Mark shook his head.
“Or maybe that wasn’t Hayes.”
A chill went through me.
“But he knew about Ethan.”
“Someone could know.”
“He knew about the report.”
Mark’s face tightened.
“Someone could know that too.”
“Who?”
Nobody answered.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text message.
Unknown number.
I opened it.
There was no greeting.
Only an address.
And beneath it:
8:00 A.M.
COME ALONE IF YOU WANT THE TRUTH ABOUT ETHAN.
My skin went cold.
I turned the phone toward Mark and Claire.
Mark read it.
“No.”
Claire whispered,
“That’s not Hayes’s office.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been there.”
Mark took my phone.
He copied the address into a map.
The location appeared.
It wasn’t a medical office.
It wasn’t even in the city.
It was a small building forty minutes away.
Near an old industrial district.
Mark stared at the screen.
“I know this place.”
Claire looked at him.
“What?”
“I’ve been there.”
“When?”
His expression changed.
“The night before Ethan died.”
Every hair on my arms rose.
“You told us you went to St. Matthew’s.”
“I did.”
“Then what is this place?”
Mark didn’t answer.
Claire moved closer.
“Mark.”
He enlarged the map.
“I went there after St. Matthew’s.”
Claire’s eyes filled with fury.
“So that’s the missing three hours.”
He nodded.
“Why?”
“Because of the folder my mother gave me.”
“What was there?”
Mark whispered,
“A records storage facility.”
“Medical records?”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
He stared at the address.
“Mine.”
I felt suddenly nauseated.
“What did you find?”
“Almost nothing.”
“Almost?”
“There was one box.”
Claire whispered,
“What was inside?”
“Birth records.”
“Yours?”
“I thought so.”
“What happened to them?”
Mark swallowed.
“Someone had already removed most of the files.”
“Who?”
“I never knew.”
Then another message appeared.
Same unknown number.
THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE.
Mark grabbed my phone.
“You’re not going.”
I took it back.
“Stop telling me what I’m going to do.”
“Rebecca, you’re pregnant.”
“Exactly.”
“Then think about the baby.”
“I AM.”
My voice cracked.
“That’s all I’m thinking about!”
Silence.
I looked at the message again.
Something was wrong.
Why ask me to come alone?
Why send me to the same place Mark had visited nine years earlier?
And why now?
Claire leaned over my shoulder.
“There’s another attachment.”
I hadn’t noticed.
A photograph.
I opened it.
The image loaded slowly.
It was an old hospital photograph.
A newborn baby wrapped in a striped blanket.
There was a card beneath the infant.
MALE INFANT.
The date was visible.
I looked at Mark.
“Is that your birthday?”
His face went white.
“Yes.”
I zoomed in.
There was another line on the card.
MOTHER: UNKNOWN.
Mark sat down.
Claire covered her mouth.
But something else was visible in the corner of the photograph.
A handwritten number.
I read it aloud.
“Two-seven-four-one.”
Mark suddenly stood.
“What?”
“2741.”
“Let me see.”
I handed him the phone.
He enlarged the image.
His hands began shaking.
“What is it?”
He looked at Claire.
Then at me.
“That wasn’t my number.”
“What do you mean?”
“The box at the storage facility had a number.”
“What number?”
He whispered,
“2742.”
One digit apart.
Claire stared at him.
“Could there have been another baby?”
Nobody answered.
Then another image arrived.
This one showed two newborn hospital cards lying beside each other.
2741.
2742.
Same date.
Both male.
I felt my stomach turn.
Claire whispered,
“Twins?”
Mark shook his head.
“I don’t have a twin.”
“How do you know?”
“Because…”
He stopped.
Because the woman who raised him had apparently lied about his birth.
Because his records had been altered.
Because there was no legal adoption.
Because the doctor connected to those records had disappeared.
Mark sat down slowly.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
He stared at the two cards.
“Nathan.”
Claire frowned.
“Your brother?”
Mark looked at her.
“My mother always said Nathan was six years older than me.”
“Yes.”
“But if she lied about me…”
His voice trailed off.
“No,” Claire whispered.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
Then another message arrived.
Three words.
ASK MARK ABOUT 2742.
I looked at him.
He looked terrified.
“Mark?”
He shook his head.
“I swear I don’t know.”
I believed him.
That was almost worse.
My phone rang again.
Unknown number.
Nobody moved.
Finally I answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a man’s voice.
Older.
Weak.
“You received the photograph?”
“Who is this?”
“Did you receive it?”
“Yes.”
Mark gestured for me to put it on speaker.
I did.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The man breathed heavily.
“You shouldn’t trust Samuel Hayes.”
Mark leaned toward the phone.
“Who are you?”
The voice stopped.
Then:
“Mark?”
Mark froze.
“Yes.”
The man gave a strange little laugh.
“I wondered whether I’d ever hear your voice.”
Mark’s face drained of color.
“Who is this?”
“Someone who was there the day you were born.”
Nobody breathed.
Mark gripped the table.
“Richard Vale is dead.”
“I know.”
“Then who are you?”
A long pause.
“My name is Thomas Reed.”
Mark shook his head.
“I don’t know you.”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Why are you contacting my wife?”
“Because you ignored every attempt I made to contact you.”
Mark frowned.
“What attempts?”
“Three letters.”
“I never received letters.”
“Someone did.”
Claire looked at him.
“Who?”
Thomas continued.
“The first went to your mother’s house.”
Mark became still.
“The second went to Claire.”
Claire gasped.
“I never got anything.”
“The third went to Dr. Hayes.”
Silence.
“When?” I asked.
“Years apart.”
“What did the letters say?”
Thomas coughed.
Then he whispered,
“That Ethan should never have died.”
Claire collapsed into a chair.
Mark shouted,
“What does that mean?”
“It means they treated him for the wrong disease.”
Nobody moved.
Claire began shaking her head.
“No.”
Thomas continued.
“The genetic diagnosis was real.”
“Then how was it wrong?”
“It wasn’t the condition that killed him.”
Claire was sobbing.
“What killed my son?”
Silence.
“WHAT KILLED MY SON?”
Thomas whispered,
“A treatment he should never have received.”
Mark’s face crumpled.
“What treatment?”
“I can’t explain this over the phone.”
“Then explain it tomorrow.”
“That’s why I sent the address.”
Mark shook his head.
“My pregnant wife isn’t going anywhere near you.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“She’s not coming alone.”
Thomas became quiet.
Then he said,
“She has to.”
“Why?”
“Because someone is watching you.”
My blood went cold.
Mark looked toward the windows.
Claire did too.
“What are you talking about?”
Thomas’s voice dropped.
“The moment Mark enters that building, they’ll know.”
“Who are they?”
“The people who spent thirty years making sure 2741 and 2742 were never connected.”
Mark whispered,
“Who is 2741?”
Thomas didn’t answer.
“WHO IS 2741?”
A long silence.
Then Thomas said,
“Your brother.”
Mark stopped breathing.
“Nathan?”
“No.”
Thomas’s next words made my knees weak.
“Your twin brother.”
The call disconnected.
For several seconds, none of us spoke.
Mark stared at the phone.
Claire stared at Mark.
I stared at both of them.
Then headlights swept across our living room window.
A car had pulled up outside.
Mark immediately moved toward the curtain.
“Don’t.”
Claire grabbed his arm.
He peeked through the edge.
His face changed.
“What?”
He didn’t answer.
I moved beside him.
A dark sedan was parked across the street.
Engine running.
Headlights off now.
Someone was sitting behind the wheel.
Watching our house.
Mark whispered,
“Turn off the lights.”
Claire rushed toward the switches.
The room went dark.
My heart hammered.
The sedan remained there.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
Then my phone buzzed again.
I looked down.
Unknown number.
But this message wasn’t from Thomas.
I knew because it contained only one sentence.
DO NOT GO TO THAT ADDRESS TOMORROW.
A second message arrived immediately.
THOMAS REED IS LYING TO YOU.
Then a photograph appeared.
It had been taken only seconds earlier.
Through our living room window.
It showed me standing beside Mark.
My hand was resting over my pregnant stomach.
Someone outside had just photographed us.
Claire whispered,
“Oh my God.”
Mark pulled me away from the window.
Another message arrived.
This one contained no warning.
No address.
No explanation.
Only a photograph of an old hospital bracelet.
The faded name printed across it was:
BABY LAWSON — 2741.
Mark stared at the screen.
“Lawson?”
Claire whispered.
“But Lawson is your father’s surname.”
Mark shook his head.
“The man who raised me.”
I enlarged the photograph.
There was handwriting beneath the number.
Two words.
TWIN A.
My heart stopped.
If 2741 was Twin A…
then 2742 had to be Twin B.
Mark.
I looked at my husband.
Somewhere, there might be another man with his face.
Another man carrying the same genes.
Another man whose existence had been erased for decades.
And then Mark whispered something that frightened me more than everything else.
“Rebecca…”
“What?”
He pointed toward the photograph.
“Look at the date.”
I did.
It was Mark’s birthday.
But the year wasn’t the one printed on his driver’s license.
It was one year earlier.
I looked up.
“Mark…”
He stared at me.
“Apparently I don’t even know how old I am.”
Then the sedan across the street started moving.
It rolled slowly past our house.
As it passed beneath the streetlight, Claire leaned toward the window.
And screamed.
“MARK!”
He turned.
“What?”
Claire pointed toward the driver’s side.
“I saw his face.”
Mark rushed to the window.
The car accelerated away.
“Who was it?”
Claire’s entire body was trembling.
She looked at Mark as if she were seeing a ghost.
“Claire, who was driving?”
She couldn’t answer.
I grabbed her hands.
“Tell me.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“The man looked exactly like Mark.”
Silence.
Mark stared toward the empty street.
And suddenly the two hospital bracelets weren’t just old records anymore.
Because if Claire was right…
2741 wasn’t dead.
He had just been sitting outside our house.
Watching us.
My phone buzzed one final time.
A photograph appeared.
This one wasn’t old.
It had been taken tonight.
It showed the man from the sedan standing beside a car.
His face was clearly visible.
I looked at Mark.
Then at the photograph.
Same eyes.
Same nose.
Same jaw.
Almost the same face.
Beneath the photograph was a message:
YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY MARK’S SON DIED?
ASK HIS BROTHER WHAT HE DID.
Mark read it over my shoulder.
His face went completely white.
Claire whispered,
“What he did?”
And before any of us could speak again, someone knocked three times on our front door.
Slowly.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Then a man’s voice came from the other side.
A voice so similar to Mark’s that I felt my blood turn to ice.
“Rebecca?”
Mark grabbed my arm.
The man outside knocked again.
“I know you’re in there.”
Then he said the words that ensured none of us would sleep that night.
“My name is Michael Lawson.”
A pause.
“And Mark isn’t the man you should be afraid of.”
