CHAPTER 7 — THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR
CHAPTER 7 — THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR
The words on the screen refused to disappear.
SUBJECT ZERO HAS RETURNED.
I stared at them until the letters blurred.
Then I looked at Daniel.
My mother's name had just appeared in the same room where seventeen children had been hidden.
My mother.
The woman I had buried fifteen years ago.
The woman whose photographs I had kept in a box beneath my bed.
The woman whose voice I could still remember.
Dead.
Gone.
Or so I had believed.
"You're lying," I whispered.
Daniel shook his head.
"I wish I were."
"My mother died."
"Did you see her body?"
I froze.
"No."
"Did you attend a funeral?"
"Yes."
"Was the coffin open?"
"No."
"Did a doctor confirm her identity?"
"I was seventeen."
"That's not an answer."
I stared at him.
He stepped closer.
"Your mother disappeared."
I shook my head.
"They told me she died."
"Who told you?"
I swallowed.
"The hospital."
"Which hospital?"
I couldn't remember.
Daniel smiled sadly.
"Exactly."
My skin went cold.
Ethan was standing beside me.
He looked as confused as I felt.
"Daniel," he said, "what did you mean when you said she chose Claire?"
Daniel looked at him.
"Because Claire wasn't supposed to marry you."
Ethan's face tightened.
"Then why did she?"
"Because your mother changed the plan."
I turned toward him.
"What plan?"
Daniel looked at me.
"The plan to destroy the Whitmores."
We left the underground facility before dawn.
The police had arrived.
The children were transported to a secure location.
Doctors were brought in.
Statements were taken.
Photographs were copied.
Files were seized.
But none of it felt real.
I sat in the back of a police vehicle with Amelia sleeping against my chest.
My son was beside her.
My two children.
Together.
For the first time.
I watched their faces.
They looked peaceful.
I didn't feel peaceful.
I felt as if my entire life had been built on a lie.
My husband had married me under false pretenses.
My daughter had been declared dead.
My mother had apparently never died.
And seventeen children had been hidden beneath the estate.
Every answer created another question.
When the police asked me where I wanted to go, I gave them the only address I could think of.
My childhood home.
The small house where I had grown up with my mother.
The house I hadn't visited in years.
The house I had sold after her supposed death.
Or at least—
I thought I had.
When we arrived, the sun was beginning to rise.
I stepped out of the vehicle.
My breath caught.
The house looked exactly as I remembered it.
White walls.
Blue shutters.
Small garden.
The old oak tree beside the porch.
But something was wrong.
The curtains were open.
There was a light on upstairs.
I stared.
"I sold this house."
Daniel stood beside me.
"No."
I turned.
"You did."
"Not really."
"What does that mean?"
He pointed across the street.
"Look at the house next door."
I frowned.
A large gray house stood there.
I remembered it.
An old couple had lived there when I was a child.
Now it looked abandoned.
Daniel said:
"That's where the real story begins."
I looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because your mother never lived alone."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"She had someone watching you."
"Who?"
Daniel pointed toward the gray house.
"Me."
I stared.
"You?"
"I was seventeen when I first saw you."
"Where?"
"Through that window."
I felt uncomfortable.
"You watched me?"
"To protect you."
"From what?"
"From Victoria."
I looked toward the house.
"What was in there?"
"Everything your mother was hiding."
The police secured my childhood home.
I entered alone.
The smell hit me immediately.
Dust.
Old wood.
Lavender.
My mother's perfume.
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I was seventeen again.
My mother was in the kitchen.
She was humming.
I was doing homework.
Everything was normal.
Then I remembered the night she disappeared.
The phone call.
The hospital.
The closed coffin.
The years of grief.
I walked upstairs.
My old bedroom was untouched.
The furniture remained.
My books.
My childhood photographs.
Even the small wooden jewelry box on my desk.
I opened it.
Inside was a note.
My name was written on the envelope.
CLAIRE.
My hands shook.
I opened it.
One sentence.
If you're reading this, they finally found you.
I stopped breathing.
I read the next line.
Do not trust the house next door.
I looked toward the window.
The gray house stood across the street.
Daniel had told me to go there.
My mother had told me not to.
I turned around.
"Daniel."
He was standing in the doorway.
"What?"
"Did you know this was here?"
He looked at the letter.
"No."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
I held it up.
"She wrote this."
He read it.
His face changed.
"Your mother knew."
"Knew what?"
"That one day you'd come back."
I looked at the letter.
There was another page.
I unfolded it.
Claire,
If you ever return to this house, don't believe anyone who tells you I am dead.
My hands began trembling.
I had to disappear.
I had to make them believe I was gone.
The Whitmores were not the only ones watching you.
Someone was living next door.
Someone I trusted.
Someone who knew where you were every night.
I looked at Daniel.
He said nothing.
I continued reading.
The person next door knows what happened to your first child.
I froze.
My first child.
Not Amelia.
My first child?
I looked at the date.
The letter had been written before my marriage.
Before Ethan.
Before Amelia.
My heart pounded.
"What does this mean?"
Daniel stepped closer.
"I don't know."
"Then why did you bring me here?"
"Because your mother left something for you."
"What?"
"The truth."
I looked at the letter again.
There was one final line.
Do not open the basement until you know who your real father is.
My blood froze.
I looked at Daniel.
"My real father?"
He didn't answer.
"Ethan's father?"
"No."
"Then who?"
Daniel looked toward the stairs.
"That's the question your mother spent her life trying to answer."
A noise came from downstairs.
We both froze.
Someone had entered the house.
Daniel immediately moved in front of me.
"Stay here."
"Who is it?"
He didn't answer.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Coming up the stairs.
I held my children close.
Then Ethan appeared.
His face was pale.
"Claire."
I exhaled.
"What are you doing here?"
"I followed you."
"Why?"
"Because you shouldn't be here."
Daniel stepped forward.
"You don't get to tell her where she can go."
Ethan glared at him.
"You don't understand."
"I understand more than you think."
Ethan looked at me.
"Your mother left this house for a reason."
"I know."
"Then you need to leave."
"Why?"
"Because the people who killed her know you're here."
My blood turned cold.
"You said she wasn't dead."
Ethan looked at Daniel.
Daniel's face hardened.
Ethan sighed.
"I don't know if she's dead."
I stared.
"Then why did you say they killed her?"
"Because someone tried."
"Who?"
"Victoria."
I shook my head.
"Victoria isn't my mother's daughter."
"No."
"Then why would she kill her?"
"Because your mother knew about the Whitmore program."
I looked at Daniel.
"And you?"
He didn't answer.
Ethan continued.
"Your mother discovered the first experiments."
"With Daniel."
"Yes."
"And she helped stop them."
"At first."
I frowned.
"What changed?"
Ethan looked at the letter.
"She realized the program could be used for something else."
"What?"
"To create people who could survive certain genetic diseases."
"That doesn't sound evil."
"It wasn't."
"Then what happened?"
"They started creating children who could be controlled."
My stomach turned.
"Controlled how?"
"Memory conditioning."
"Emotional suppression."
"Behavioral manipulation."
I looked at my children.
"Amelia."
Ethan nodded.
"She was resistant."
"To the conditioning?"
"Yes."
"That's why they wanted her."
"Yes."
I swallowed.
"And the other children?"
"Same."
"Then why did they keep them alive?"
"Because they were studying them."
I felt sick.
"How long?"
"Years."
Silence.
Then Daniel spoke.
"There's one thing you're missing."
I looked at him.
"What?"
"The program didn't start with Amelia."
He walked toward the window.
"It started with Claire."
I froze.
"What?"
He looked at me.
"Your mother used her own daughter as the first test."
I felt as though someone had punched me.
"No."
Daniel continued.
"When you were five, you became ill."
I remembered.
A fever.
Hospitals.
Blood tests.
My mother crying.
"You were treated for a genetic disorder."
I shook my head.
"Yes."
"But the treatment wasn't normal."
I couldn't breathe.
"What did she do?"
"She used you."
My knees weakened.
"She experimented on me?"
Daniel nodded.
"You were Subject One."
I looked at my hands.
My body.
My memories.
My entire life.
"Then why don't I remember?"
"Because she erased the memories."
I stared at him.
"She erased my memories?"
"Partially."
"Why?"
"To protect you."
Ethan suddenly stepped forward.
"Daniel."
"What?"
"Tell her the rest."
Daniel looked at him.
"You tell her."
Ethan shook his head.
"I can't."
"Then I will."
I looked between them.
"What?"
Daniel said:
"Your husband was not the first Whitmore to manipulate you."
My heart stopped.
"Who was?"
He looked toward the gray house.
"The man who lived next door."
I stared.
"Who?"
Daniel whispered:
"Your father."
I couldn't breathe.
"My father died when I was a baby."
Daniel shook his head.
"That's another lie."
The room became silent.
I felt dizzy.
"My mother told me he died."
"She lied."
"Why?"
"Because he was one of the architects of the program."
I stared at him.
"Who is he?"
Daniel hesitated.
Then:
"Robert Whitmore."
My blood froze.
Ethan's father.
The same man everyone said had died six years ago.
The same man whose portrait hung over the Whitmore estate.
The same man whose name appeared on every company document.
I looked at Ethan.
His face was completely white.
"You knew?"
He didn't answer.
"Ethan."
He closed his eyes.
"Yes."
My heart broke again.
"You knew my father was Robert Whitmore?"
"Yes."
"And you still married me?"
"I didn't know you were his daughter."
"When did you find out?"
"After the wedding."
I stared.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because my mother threatened to kill you."
"Again."
He looked ashamed.
"Yes."
Daniel walked toward the window.
"There's more."
I couldn't take it.
"What now?"
He pointed across the street.
The gray house.
A light had turned on upstairs.
Someone was standing behind the curtain.
A man.
Tall.
Older.
Watching us.
My breath caught.
Daniel whispered:
"He's alive."
I stared.
The man slowly stepped away from the window.
I couldn't see his face.
But I knew the silhouette.
I had seen it in old photographs.
My husband's father.
My biological father.
Robert Whitmore.
I turned to Ethan.
"Is that him?"
He didn't answer.
I ran downstairs.
The front door opened.
I crossed the street.
"Claire!"
Ethan shouted after me.
I ignored him.
I reached the gray house.
The front door was unlocked.
I pushed it open.
"Hello?"
Silence.
The house smelled like dust and cigarette smoke.
I walked inside.
A photograph hung on the wall.
My mother.
Young.
Smiling.
Beside her stood Robert Whitmore.
I touched the photograph.
Then I noticed something.
A third person had been cut out.
Someone had deliberately removed a face.
I heard footsteps upstairs.
I ran.
At the top of the stairs was a hallway.
A door stood open.
I entered.
No one.
Only a desk.
A chair.
And a tape recorder.
I pressed play.
Static.
Then my mother's voice.
I froze.
"Claire."
Tears filled my eyes.
"If you're hearing this, then Robert has found you."
I stopped breathing.
"Robert is not your father."
My heart stopped.
The tape continued.
"He wants you to believe you are his daughter."
"But you're not."
I stared at the recorder.
"Your real father is the reason I had to disappear."
The tape clicked.
Then her voice became barely audible.
"Claire..."
A pause.
"Your father is Daniel's father."
I froze.
Daniel.
I turned toward the doorway.
He stood there.
His face had gone white.
"What did she say?"
I couldn't speak.
The tape continued.
"The man who created the program..."
"the man who ordered the children taken..."
"the man who has been watching you since you were born..."
My mother's voice broke.
"Is the man living in the house next door."
The tape stopped.
Silence.
Daniel stared at me.
Ethan appeared behind him.
Then—
the front door downstairs slammed shut.
Someone had entered.
A man's voice echoed through the house.
"Claire."
I knew that voice.
Ethan's father.
Robert Whitmore.
"Come downstairs."
I froze.
Robert continued:
"It's time you met your real father."
Daniel looked at me.
Then he whispered:
"Don't."
I stared down the staircase.
"Why?"
His face was filled with terror.
"Because if he is here..."
He swallowed.
"...then your mother failed."
May you like
And somewhere downstairs—
Robert laughed.
