Chapter 4 - Someone Was Watching My Sons
The photograph was only eight seconds old.
I knew because the timestamp appeared beneath it.
11:42 p.m.
We were still driving.
Mara sat beside me in the back seat, staring at the image on her phone.
The four boys were asleep in their bedroom.
Noah was curled beneath a blue blanket.
Lucas had kicked his covers onto the floor.
Eli was hugging a stuffed bear.
Owen was sleeping with one hand beneath his cheek.
Nothing about the picture was unusual.
Except for one thing.
It had been taken from inside their bedroom.
"Who has access to the house?" I asked.
Mara shook her head.
"Nobody."
"Security cameras?"
"Outside only."
"Alarm?"
"Yes."
"Motion sensors?"
"Every window and door."
I looked at the photograph again.
"Then whoever took this was already inside."
Her eyes filled with fear.
"We have to go back."
"No."
"Adrian—"
"We don't know if they're still there."
She stared at me.
"You just said—"
"We're not going anywhere near that house until I know it's safe."
I called my driver.
"Take us to the Charles Hotel."
Mara looked confused.
"Why?"
"Because I need a secure location."
"You think they'll follow us?"
"I think someone has been watching your children for six years."
She went silent.
The driver accelerated.
I called a private security firm my company had used for years.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
Six hours earlier, I had been preparing to ask another woman to marry me.
Now I was hiring security to protect four boys I had only met that afternoon.
My phone rang.
My grandfather.
I ignored it.
He called again.
I rejected it.
Then a text appeared.
You have no idea what you've started.
I stared at it.
Then another message arrived.
Ask Mara what happened at St. Vincent's.
I turned toward her.
"Mara."
She looked at me.
"What?"
"What happened at St. Vincent's?"
Her face went completely still.
"Who told you about St. Vincent's?"
"My grandfather."
She looked away.
"Adrian..."
"What happened there?"
She didn't answer.
"Mara."
Her eyes closed.
"That's where the boys were born."
"I know."
"No."
She looked at me.
"You don't know."
I waited.
"You were there."
My heartbeat slowed.
"What?"
"You were there when they were born."
I shook my head.
"My family told me I was in California."
"They lied."
Again.
That word.
Lie.
It had become the foundation of my entire life.
Mara continued.
"You arrived at the hospital around two in the morning."
"I don't remember."
"You were exhausted. You'd been driving through the night."
"Why?"
"Because I was in labor."
I stared at her.
"You called me?"
"Of course I called you."
"Why don't I remember?"
"Because you were drugged."
My body went cold.
"What?"
She lowered her voice.
"Your father came to the hospital."
I knew what she was going to say before she said it.
"He gave you something."
I stared at her.
"What did he give me?"
"I don't know."
"But you saw him?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"He took you away."
"While you were in labor?"
She nodded.
"I screamed at him."
Her voice cracked.
"I begged you not to go."
"And I left?"
"You couldn't even stand."
My hands tightened into fists.
"What happened after?"
"The boys were born twenty-seven minutes apart."
She smiled faintly through tears.
"I remember every second."
I looked at the photograph.
Four babies.
Four sons.
My sons.
"Then why does the DNA test say only one is mine?"
Mara shook her head.
"It doesn't."
I frowned.
"What?"
"That wasn't the DNA test."
I pulled the document from my jacket.
"The names are right here."
She looked at it.
Then laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because she finally understood.
"Adrian."
"What?"
"Look at the dates."
I did.
The test had been performed six years ago.
But the boys' dates of birth were wrong.
Three days wrong.
"That's impossible."
"No."
Mara pointed at the signature.
"Look at the doctor."
I read it.
Dr. Helen Whitmore.
My aunt.
My grandfather's daughter.
A doctor who had never worked at St. Vincent's.
I looked at Mara.
"She forged it."
"Yes."
The realization hit me.
My family hadn't merely hidden the truth.
They had manufactured an entirely different truth.
My phone rang.
This time it wasn't my grandfather.
It was an unknown number.
I answered.
A man's voice said:
"Mr. Whitmore."
"Who is this?"
"Someone who knows what happened to your mother."
I froze.
My mother.
She had been dead for nine years.
"What about her?"
"You were told she died of cancer."
My pulse began pounding.
"She did."
"No."
The caller paused.
"She was murdered."
The line went dead.
Mara stared at me.
"What happened?"
I couldn't answer.
Because for the first time, another piece of my childhood suddenly felt wrong.
My mother had been sick.
I'd watched her deteriorate.
I'd watched doctors come and go.
I'd watched my father cry.
I'd watched my grandfather take control of everything.
But there had always been one strange detail.
My mother had wanted to tell me something before she died.
I remembered her whispering:
"Adrian, if anything happens to me, don't trust—"
Then my father entered the room.
The conversation ended.
I had spent nine years assuming she meant someone else.
Now I wasn't so sure.
The car stopped.
Security officers approached.
Mara stepped out first.
Then I saw the boys.
They were safe.
A nanny had brought them downstairs from the hotel's private suite.
Noah saw me and ran forward.
"Dad!"
The word stopped me cold.
Mara froze.
The boy seemed surprised by his own word.
He looked at me.
"Sorry."
I crouched.
"You don't have to be sorry."
He smiled.
I opened my arms.
He hugged me.
Then Lucas joined.
Then Eli.
Then Owen.
Four little bodies.
Four tiny hearts.
For six years, they had been missing one person.
Their father.
I held them tighter.
And behind us, Mara quietly cried.
But someone else was watching.
Across the street.
Inside a black sedan.
A man lowered binoculars.
He lifted his phone.
"They're together."
A woman's voice answered.
"Good."
"Should I proceed?"
"No."
A pause.
"Let him find the truth."
"Are you sure?"
The woman smiled.
May you like
"He's going to destroy his own family for us."
Then she ended the call.
