“She said if anything happened to her, I should give it to you.”
I looked up.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t know how.”
The answer hurt because I understood it.
I opened the notebook.
Most pages were ordinary.
Appointments.
Feeding plans.
Names.
Claire Elise.
Sophie Anne.
Then halfway through, the handwriting changed.
More hurried.
Adam knows I found the accounts.
I turned the page.
He says the money is old and irrelevant. It isn’t.
Another page.
He admitted using Daniel’s name because everyone trusted Daniel.
My chest tightened.
Another.
He said nobody will believe me without original records.
I have the originals.
I stopped.
“Where?”
Evan pointed toward the back.
Mary had drawn a small diagram.
A storage locker.
Number 318.
Union Station Storage.
Underneath:
Key with Mom.
I looked at Helen.
Her eyes widened.
“What key?”
She stood and disappeared into the guest room.
When she returned, she held Mary’s old key ring.
One tiny brass key had a faded label.
The locker was two hours away.
Police advised us not to go alone.
So the next morning, an investigator named Detective Harris met us there.
Locker 318 contained three boxes.
The first held financial records.
Original statements.
Forged signatures.
Copies of checks.
The second held letters.
Adam’s letters to Mary from long ago.
Some apologetic.
Some manipulative.
Some unmistakably controlling.
The third box contained a small digital recorder.
Harris put on gloves.
“Do you recognize this?”
I did.
Mary used it for work interviews years earlier.
The batteries were dead.
Harris replaced them.
There were seven recordings.
The final one was dated eleven days before the twins were born.
Mary’s voice came first.
“Say it again.”
Then Adam.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
My skin crawled.
Mary:
“You told me Daniel knew I was pregnant.”
Adam:
“Yes.”
Mary:
“He didn’t.”
Adam:
“That’s ancient history.”
Mary:
“You used his name.”
Adam:
“Mary—”
Mary:
“You forged his signature.”
Adam:
“Lower your voice.”
Mary:
“You took money from the youth fund.”
Silence.
Then Adam said:
“You have no idea what you’re touching.”
Mary:
“I know exactly what I’m touching.”
Adam:
“You have a husband and two babies coming. Think about them.”
Mary:
“Don’t you dare talk about my children.”
Adam:
“Then stop.”
Mary:
“No.”
The recording ended.
Harris removed the device.
“That helps.”
“Helps with what?”
“With establishing a pattern.”
I looked at him.
“Is Adam going to be arrested?”
“We need to find him first.”
My stomach tightened.
“You don’t know where he is?”
“Not at the moment.”
That evening, we returned to my sister’s house.
For the first time in days, I felt we had moved ahead of Adam.
We had evidence.
Original records.
Audio.
Messages.
DNA.
Everything Mary had been trying to assemble.
Then Evan asked a question.
“Why did Mary wait?”
I looked at him.
“To tell you?”
“To tell anyone.”
Helen answered before I could.
“Fear.”
Evan shook his head.
“She wasn’t afraid at the end.”
“No,” I said.
“She changed.”
“Maybe.”
Then I saw something in the notebook.
A sentence written near the final page.
Daniel thinks the girls are the reason I’m terrified.
They aren’t.
My pulse changed.
I read on.
If Adam learns what I found in the second DNA report, he will come after everything.
I stared at the words.
“Second DNA report?”
Evan leaned closer.
“What second report?”
We searched the notebook.
Nothing else.
I called Harris.
He had no idea.
We searched Mary’s box again.
The hidden compartment.
The letters.
The prepaid phone.
Then Helen remembered something.
“Mary gave me an envelope at the hospital.”
I turned.
“What envelope?”
“She said it was for the girls.”
“When?”
“The morning of the delivery.”
“Where is it?”
Helen went pale.
“In my safe.”
We drove to her house.
Inside the safe was a sealed envelope marked:
FOR CLAIRE AND SOPHIE — ONLY IF ADAM RETURNS.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside was a laboratory report.
Not Evan’s.
The twins’.
A prenatal genetic test.
I read the first page.
Then the second.
And suddenly understood why Mary had been so afraid.
The report showed a familial genetic match.
Not to Adam.
To someone closely related to him.
Evan stared at it.
“What does that mean?”
Harris, who had joined us, read the document twice.
Then looked at me.
“It means Adam may not be Evan’s only biological connection to your family.”
I frowned.
“What?”
He pointed at the report.
“The twins share markers with someone from Adam’s paternal line.”
My stomach dropped.
“But the twins are mine.”
“No one is questioning that.”
“Then how—”
Evan suddenly whispered, “Adam has a brother.”
Everyone looked at him.
“What?”
“He contacted me once.”
My blood ran cold.
“Who?”
Evan swallowed.
“Michael Cole.”
I knew that name.
Everyone in town did.
Michael Cole had supposedly d/i/e/d twenty-one years ago.
PART 6 — THE MAN WHO WAS NEVER GONE
Michael Cole had been Adam’s older brother.
He was charming, reckless, and always one step away from disaster.
When Adam and I were teenagers, Michael was the person we were warned not to become.
Then, at twenty-seven, he supposedly d/i/e/d in a boating accident.
No body was ever recovered.
Everyone accepted it.
Eventually.
His family held a memorial.
Adam cried harder than anyone.
Now Evan was telling me Michael had contacted him.
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
“Before Mary found you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Email.”
“What did he say?”
“That he knew who my biological father was.”
“And you believed him?”
“No.”
“Did you respond?”
“Once.”
Evan took out his phone.
He found the email.
The sender called himself M. Carter.
The message read:
You’re asking questions about your birth. Some answers are safer than others. If Mary Carter contacts you, do not trust everything she tells you.
My chest tightened.
“Did Mary know?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She went completely still.”
Helen whispered, “Oh God.”
Evan continued.
“She told me Michael Cole was supposed to be d/e/@/d.”
“Supposed to be?”
“She wasn’t convinced.”
Harris took the phone.
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