CHAPTER 9 — THE MAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
CHAPTER 9 — THE MAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
I couldn't breathe.
The room where Amelia had been sleeping was empty.
Her blanket lay crumpled on the floor.
The window stood open.
And across the glass, written in red, were the words:
ONE CHILD WAS NEVER YOURS.
Beneath them:
ASK YOUR MOTHER WHO GAVE BIRTH TO HER.
I stared at the message.
Then I screamed.
"AMELIA!"
Ethan rushed past me.
He looked at the empty bed.
His face turned white.
"No."
Robert stood completely still.
For the first time since I'd met him, the cold confidence disappeared from his face.
"Lock the house."
The police outside immediately moved.
Doors slammed.
Windows were checked.
Every room searched.
But Amelia was gone.
My daughter had disappeared in less than a minute.
I dropped to my knees.
Her little stuffed rabbit was still on the floor.
I picked it up.
It smelled like her.
I pressed it against my chest.
"Please."
My voice broke.
"Please bring her back."
Ethan knelt beside me.
"Claire."
I pushed him away.
"You were supposed to protect her."
"I know."
"You said you would."
"I know."
"You lied."
"I know."
I looked at Robert.
"You said you knew everything."
He didn't answer.
"You knew someone was coming."
"No."
"You knew they were watching us."
"Yes."
"Then why didn't you stop them?"
His jaw tightened.
"Because I didn't know who."
I held up the red-stained message.
"They know something about my mother."
Robert stared at it.
Then his expression changed.
"What?"
"What?"
He stepped closer.
"That handwriting."
"You recognize it?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
"Whose?"
He whispered:
"Your mother's."
My heart stopped.
We searched the entire property.
Nothing.
No broken locks.
No footprints.
No cameras had caught anyone entering.
The police were baffled.
I wasn't.
Someone had been inside the house long before Amelia disappeared.
Someone who knew the security system.
Someone who knew where the children slept.
Someone who knew exactly which window to use.
I looked at Ethan.
"You."
He stared.
"What?"
"You knew the house."
"Yes."
"You knew the security."
"Yes."
"You knew where Amelia slept."
"Yes."
"You knew the police routines."
He shook his head.
"Claire, I didn't take her."
"Then prove it."
He looked at me.
"How?"
"Find her."
He nodded.
"I will."
He walked away.
Robert watched him leave.
Then said:
"Don't trust him."
I laughed bitterly.
"That's getting old."
"Then don't trust me either."
I turned.
"At least you're honest about it."
Robert looked toward the hallway.
"There is somewhere we need to go."
"Where?"
"The house next door."
"Why?"
"Because your mother left something there."
I shook my head.
"She left a message."
"Not the one on the window."
He looked at the floor.
"Something older."
The basement beneath the gray house was larger than I expected.
A hidden staircase descended behind a bookshelf.
At the bottom was a metal door.
Robert entered a code.
The door opened.
Inside was a room filled with boxes.
Documents.
Photographs.
Medical records.
Tapes.
Hard drives.
My entire childhood was stored there.
I walked toward a shelf.
My name appeared on a folder.
CLAIRE BENNETT — SUBJECT 01
My hands shook.
I opened it.
The first page contained my birth information.
Then medical records.
Then photographs.
Me as a child.
Me at five.
Me at six.
Me at ten.
Me at fifteen.
Then—
a photograph of me pregnant.
My stomach turned.
The date was three years ago.
Someone had been watching me during my pregnancy.
I turned the page.
PREGNANCY: HIGH PRIORITY
FETAL COUNT: TWO
GENETIC MATCH: CONFIRMED
My blood froze.
Two fetuses.
I already knew that.
But beneath the report was another line.
EMBRYO A — NATURAL
EMBRYO B — MODIFIED
I stared.
"Modified?"
Robert stood behind me.
"Yes."
"What does that mean?"
"One child was conceived naturally."
"And the other?"
"Implanted."
My stomach dropped.
"Implanted?"
"Your pregnancy was manipulated."
"No."
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Your mother."
I looked at him.
"My mother was dead."
"Not then."
I turned another page.
There was a photograph of a newborn.
A tiny baby girl.
The photograph had been taken inside a hospital.
The date was the night I gave birth.
I stared.
The baby looked like Amelia.
But there was something wrong.
A red mark around her wrist.
A hospital bracelet.
The name on it wasn't Amelia.
It said:
SUBJECT 17
My knees nearly gave out.
"That's not possible."
Robert nodded.
"It is."
I turned the page.
A second photograph.
A different baby.
This one had my son's features.
ETHAN WHITMORE JR.
I stared at the two photographs.
Two babies.
One night.
One mother.
But three years ago, I had been told only one survived.
"Which one is my daughter?"
Robert looked at me.
"That's the question your mother wanted you to answer."
I shook my head.
"No."
"Claire."
"No."
I threw the folder onto the table.
"Amelia is my daughter."
"Yes."
"Then why does this file say otherwise?"
"Because biology and identity aren't always the same."
I stared.
"What does that mean?"
Robert took a breath.
"The child you call Amelia is biologically connected to you."
"Then she is my daughter."
"Yes."
"But?"
"There is another child."
"Where?"
He didn't answer.
"Where?"
Robert looked toward the far wall.
"Here."
I turned.
There was a second metal door.
He opened it.
Inside was a small room.
A bed.
A chair.
A medical monitor.
And a photograph.
A little girl.
Older than Amelia.
Maybe three years old.
Dark hair.
Green eyes.
The same crescent birthmark.
I couldn't breathe.
Robert whispered:
"That's Subject 17."
"Where is she?"
"She was here."
"When?"
"Until last night."
My blood froze.
"She was here?"
"Yes."
"Then who took her?"
Robert looked at me.
"Your mother."
I stepped backward.
"My mother is alive."
"Yes."
"Where is she?"
"That's what we're going to find out."
A sound came from behind the door.
Someone was coming.
Robert immediately turned off the lights.
"Hide."
I crouched behind the desk.
The door opened.
Footsteps.
A man entered.
Not Ethan.
Not Daniel.
Someone older.
He switched on a lamp.
I recognized him.
Dr. Samuel Reed.
The doctor from the Whitmore files.
He placed a briefcase on the desk.
Then spoke to someone on the phone.
"The transfer is complete."
I held my breath.
"The girl is safe."
A pause.
"No."
He shook his head.
"She doesn't know yet."
Another pause.
"Because if she finds out who the father is, she'll come looking."
I looked at Robert.
His expression was hard.
Dr. Reed continued:
"The DNA test failed."
Another pause.
"Yes."
"Claire now knows about Subject 17."
I felt my heart pounding.
"Then we have to move the other child."
Robert suddenly stepped from the shadows.
Dr. Reed froze.
"Robert."
"Where is she?"
Dr. Reed backed away.
"I don't know."
Robert grabbed him by the collar.
"Where?"
"I told you!"
"Who has her?"
Dr. Reed's eyes moved toward me.
I stepped out.
"Tell me."
He stared.
"You shouldn't be here."
"I know."
"You don't understand."
"I've heard that too many times."
He swallowed.
"Your mother took her."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
Robert tightened his grip.
Dr. Reed gasped.
"She has a safe house."
"Where?"
"I don't know the address."
"Then what do you know?"
Dr. Reed looked at me.
"I know who she trusted."
"Who?"
He hesitated.
Then:
"Your father."
My heart stopped.
"Robert?"
Dr. Reed shook his head.
"No."
"Then who?"
He looked directly at me.
"The man you thought died before you were born."
I froze.
Robert's face changed.
"Impossible."
Dr. Reed whispered:
"He's alive."
I couldn't speak.
"Who?"
Dr. Reed looked terrified.
"Michael Bennett."
My father's name.
The name on my birth certificate.
The man I had believed died before I could remember him.
The man my mother had said was buried.
Dead.
Gone.
Except—
he was alive.
I looked at Robert.
"You knew?"
Robert's face was pale.
"No."
Dr. Reed smiled weakly.
"That's why you were never able to find him."
"Where is he?"
Dr. Reed looked at the clock.
Then toward the window.
"Too late."
"What?"
"He knows we're here."
A sound came from outside.
An engine.
Then another.
Robert released him.
"Get down."
The basement windows exploded.
Glass flew across the room.
Gunfire erupted.
I dropped behind the desk.
Robert fired back.
Dr. Reed screamed.
Someone shouted outside.
"TAKE THE FILES!"
More shots.
The lights went out.
I crawled toward the folder.
My hands found it.
I grabbed it.
Then felt another hand close around my wrist.
I screamed.
A man's voice whispered:
"Claire."
I knew that voice.
My blood froze.
"Don't be afraid."
I looked up.
A face emerged from the darkness.
Older.
Scarred.
But unmistakably familiar from the photograph in my mother's house.
Michael Bennett.
My father.
The man who was supposed to have been dead.
He looked at me with tears in his eyes.
Then whispered:
"I'm sorry it took me thirty years to come back."
I couldn't speak.
He reached toward my face.
I pulled away.
"Where is my daughter?"
He froze.
Then his expression broke.
"Which one?"
My blood ran cold.
"What?"
He looked at the file in my hands.
"You still don't understand."
"Tell me."
He glanced toward Robert.
Then Dr. Reed.
Then back at me.
"You didn't give birth to two children that night."
I shook my head.
"I did."
"No."
He stepped closer.
"You gave birth to three."
My world stopped.
"Three?"
Michael nodded.
"Three babies."
"Where are they?"
He closed his eyes.
"One is with your husband."
I looked toward the door.
"One was taken by your mother."
My heart pounded.
"And the third?"
He opened his eyes.
"The third one was never supposed to survive."
"Where is my third child?"
He stared at me.
Then said the words that changed everything:
"She's the reason your mother is still alive."
Suddenly, the basement door slammed open.
Ethan stood there.
His gun was raised.
He looked at Michael.
His face went completely white.
"You're alive."
Michael looked at him.
"Yes."
Ethan lowered his weapon.
Then whispered:
"My God."
I looked between them.
"You know him."
Ethan nodded.
"I've known him my entire life."
"Who is he?"
Ethan's eyes filled with tears.
"Your father."
I stared.
Michael stepped forward.
"Claire..."
I raised my hand.
"Don't."
He stopped.
"You lied to me."
"I had to."
"Everyone says that."
"I was trying to keep you alive."
"Where were you?"
He looked at me.
"Watching."
My heart broke.
"Watching me grow up?"
"Yes."
"Watching me marry Ethan?"
"Yes."
"Watching me lose my daughter?"
His eyes filled with tears.
"Yes."
"Why didn't you stop it?"
He whispered:
"Because I was the one who ordered them to take her."
Silence.
I couldn't breathe.
My own father.
The man who had been watching me all my life.
The man who had been hiding while my family destroyed itself.
He had ordered my daughter taken.
I stepped backward.
"Why?"
Michael looked toward the folder.
"Because your daughter wasn't the target."
"Then who was?"
He stared directly at me.
"You."
I froze.
"Me?"
He nodded.
"Your mother didn't steal your daughter to protect the Whitmores."
"Then why?"
"Because she needed to force you to remember."
"Remember what?"
He whispered:
"What happened in Room 17 when you were five."
My blood ran cold.
"I don't remember."
"I know."
"Why?"
"Because your mother erased it."
"What's in my memory?"
Michael looked toward the broken basement window.
"The identity of the man who started everything."
"Robert?"
He shook his head.
"No."
"Then who?"
Michael's eyes moved toward Ethan.
Ethan looked terrified.
Michael whispered:
"The man your husband calls father..."
He paused.
"...isn't the man who runs the Whitmore family."
I stared.
"Then who is?"
Michael looked at me.
"The real head of the Whitmore family died twenty years ago."
I frowned.
"Then who have we been dealing with?"
He answered:
"A man who stole his identity."
The room went silent.
Then the basement lights suddenly came back on.
And behind Michael—
someone stood in the doorway.
A woman.
Gray hair.
Pale face.
Eyes I had seen in my dreams for fifteen years.
My mother.
She looked directly at me.
And whispered:
"Claire."
I couldn't move.
She took one step forward.
"I'm sorry."
My lips trembled.
"Mom?"
She nodded.
Then looked at Michael.
Then Robert.
Then Ethan.
Her face became terrified.
"He's here."
I swallowed.
"Who?"
She looked behind me.
Not at Robert.
Not at Michael.
Not at Ethan.
At the dark hallway.
Then she whispered:
"The man who was supposed to be dead."
A shadow moved.
And a man's voice echoed from the corridor.
"You shouldn't have come back, Elena."
My mother's face went white.
Because the voice belonged to the man she had spent thirty years running from.
And when he stepped into the light—
I recognized him.
I had seen his face every day of my childhood.
He was the man in every photograph.
The man who had supposedly died before I was born.
May you like
My real father.
And he was smiling.
