Chapter 9 - THE BROTHER I NEVER KNEW
My mother asked everyone except Claire and me to leave.
Detective Ortiz refused.
“This is part of an attempted murder investigation.”
Eleanor looked like she wanted to argue.
Then she gave up.
“Jonathan is your father's son.”
The words barely registered.
“My father had another child?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three years before you were born.”
I looked at Richard.
My uncle stared at the floor.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
The second betrayal almost felt smaller only because I was exhausted.
“Everyone knew except me?”
“No,” Richard said. “Very few people.”
“Claire?”
She shook her head immediately.
My mother continued.
“Your father had a relationship before we married.”
“Relationship?”
“A woman named Miriam Cross.”
The surname hit me.
Cross.
Nathaniel Cross.
“Was she related to Nathaniel?”
“His sister.”
Everything connected at once.
My father had a son with Nathaniel Cross's sister.
Jonathan Cross-Sloane.
A hidden heir.
Blackridge.
Project Heir.
I sat down.
“Where is Jonathan?”
My mother looked at Richard.
Richard answered.
“He died.”
“When?”
“Twelve years ago.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Are we sure?”
No one answered.
That frightened me more than an immediate response would have.
“Are we sure?”
Richard spoke carefully.
“The body was identified.”
“By whom?”
“Miriam.”
“His mother.”
“Yes.”
“What did my father do?”
“He provided financial support privately.”
“Did Jonathan know who he was?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know about me?”
“Yes.”
My head felt too full.
Somewhere in the world, while I had been building a company named after my family, I'd had a brother.
A brother who knew my name.
A brother who died without ever meeting me.
“Why was I never told?”
My mother whispered, “Because I asked your father not to.”
That hurt.
“You knew there was a child.”
“Yes.”
“And you decided I shouldn't know my own brother existed.”
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That he would come for everything your father built.”
Richard interrupted.
“Eleanor.”
“No. He deserves the truth.”
She looked at me.
“Jonathan wanted recognition.”
“So?”
“He wanted the Sloane name.”
“He was Dad's son.”
“He wanted shares.”
“There it is.”
My mother flinched.
Money.
Again.
Money hiding beneath every family decision like mold behind expensive wallpaper.
“Did Dad give him shares?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Jonathan was unstable.”
“According to whom?”
“Nathaniel Cross.”
I laughed.
“The man who just tried to murder my wife?”
My mother closed her eyes.
“We trusted him then.”
Of course they did.
Everyone had trusted someone.
That had become the theme of the night.
“What happened twelve years ago?”
Richard answered.
“Jonathan confronted your father.”
“My father died fifteen years ago.”
“This was earlier.”
“About the company?”
“Yes.”
“He wanted to work with Mason,” Richard said.
I stared.
“Me?”
“You had just started expanding regionally. Jonathan had been following your career.”
“Why didn't he contact me?”
“He tried.”
My mother looked away.
Cold spread through me.
“You stopped him.”
“I asked your father to handle it.”
“What does that mean?”
“Jonathan sent letters.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
My mother didn't answer.
“Where?”
“At my house.”
I stood.
For the first time, Claire looked angry enough to forget she was in a hospital bed.
“You kept letters from his brother?”
Eleanor whispered, “I thought I was protecting my family.”
Claire shook her head.
“No. You were protecting your version of the family.”
My mother's eyes filled with tears.
Claire didn't soften.
“You don't get to make decisions for everyone and call it protection.”
I squeezed Claire's hand.
She had spent seventeen years loving me without ever trying to control me.
Maybe that was why I could finally see how different some other kinds of love were.
Detective Ortiz returned to the investigation.
“How does Jonathan connect to Project Heir?”
Richard pointed at the documents.
“If Jonathan had children, they might have a claim against the family trust.”
“Did he?”
My mother shook her head.
“Not that we knew.”
Ortiz looked at the records.
“Blackridge believed he mattered genetically.”
Nathaniel Cross had lost a nephew.
A nephew who happened to be a secret Sloane heir.
Maybe Project Heir wasn't about medical research.
Maybe it had begun with obsession.
Bloodlines.
Inheritance.
Control.
Then Ortiz received another update from the Blackridge raid.
The fire had destroyed part of the laboratory, but police recovered a secure cold-storage unit.
Inside were biological samples labeled with names.
Mine.
My father's.
Jonathan's.
And Claire's.
Blackridge had been collecting genetic material from my family for years.
“Why?” Claire whispered.
No one knew.
Then technicians found something else.
A maternity plan.
Not for Claire.
For someone named Rebecca Hale.
Dated eleven years earlier.
The infant listed on the form:
Male.
Father:
Jonathan Cross-Sloane.
I stared at the document.
“Jonathan had a child.”
My mother sat down heavily.
Richard looked stunned.
Neither had known.
Ortiz continued reading.
“The baby was born eleven years ago.”
“What happened to him?”
“Records show the mother died eighteen months later.”
“And the child?”
“No confirmed custody record.”
“Name?”
She looked up.
“Ethan.”
I had a nephew.
Somewhere.
Eleven years old.
Nathaniel Cross's grandnephew.
My father's grandson.
Another heir.
And Blackridge had erased him from official succession research after age three.
“Why?” Claire asked.
Ortiz turned another page.
One handwritten notation had survived.
SUBJECT E-4 REMOVED FROM PROJECT BY DIRECTOR ORDER. LOCATION SEALED.
I looked at my mother.
“You truly didn't know?”
“No.”
For once, I believed her without hesitation.
Then a hospital officer entered.
“Detective Ortiz?”
“Yes?”
“There is a boy downstairs asking for Mr. Sloane.”
Everyone became still.
“What boy?”
“Maybe eleven or twelve.”
My pulse stopped.
“What did he say?”
The officer checked his notes.
“He said his name is Ethan.”
Claire gripped my hand.
My mother whispered, “Oh my God.”
Ortiz immediately ordered security to bring him upstairs under escort.
Five minutes later, the doors opened.
A thin boy entered wearing jeans, sneakers, and an oversized gray sweatshirt.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
He looked terrified.
And familiar.
Not like me.
Like my father.
I had photographs of my father at eleven years old.
This child had the same eyebrows.
The same chin.
The same serious expression.
Ethan stared at me.
“You're Mason?”
I couldn't speak.
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
“My dad was Jonathan.”
My mother started crying.
Ethan looked confused by her.
I knelt so we were closer to eye level.
“Who brought you here?”
“No one.”
“How did you get here?”
“Bus.”
“From where?”
He named a town two hours away.
“Who do you live with?”
“My foster parents.”
“Do they know you're here?”
He shook his head.
Detective Ortiz stepped closer.
“Ethan, why did you come to the hospital?”
He pulled an envelope from inside his sweatshirt.
“Because Dr. Cross told me to.”
Every adult in the room went still.
“When?” Ortiz asked.
“Yesterday.”
“Where?”
“He came to my school.”
My blood turned cold.
“What did he want?”
“He asked if I knew who Mason Sloane was.”
“And?”
“I said yes.”
Of course he knew.
My face was on buildings.
News articles.
Company ads.
“What else did he say?”
Ethan looked at me.
“He said you're my uncle.”
I could barely breathe.
“Did you know before yesterday?”
“No.”
“What did he tell you to do?”
“Come here today if something happened.”
“To whom?”
“He didn't say.”
Ethan handed me the envelope.
My name was written across it.
I opened it.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
Not from Nathaniel Cross.
From Jonathan.
My brother.
Mason,
If this ever reaches you, then Nathaniel failed to keep Ethan hidden, and you need to know why he was hidden in the first place.
I read faster.
Ethan is my son. He is also the reason Blackridge exists. Nathaniel started the research because of him.
Claire leaned closer.
I continued.
There is something unusual in our family's genetics. Something connected to the disease that killed our father. Nathaniel believes it can be predicted, controlled, perhaps even prevented through descendants. He stopped caring where medicine ended and ownership began.
I looked at Ethan.
The boy watched me with frightened eyes.
The final paragraph was worse.
If Nathaniel approaches your children, don't believe him when he says he wants to save them. He convinced himself that the Sloane bloodline belongs to his research.
He will hurt anyone who stands between him and it.
Then one last sentence.
Including you.
Detective Ortiz's phone rang.
“Ortiz.”
She listened.
Her eyes immediately moved toward Ethan.
“What?”
Another pause.
“Are you sure?”
She ended the call.
“What happened?” I asked.
“The body recovered twelve years ago.”
“Jonathan?”
She nodded.
“It wasn't him.”
The room became silent.
I stared at the letter in my hands.
“My brother is alive?”
“Possibly.”
Ethan suddenly spoke.
“I know where he is.”
Everyone turned.
“You know your father?”
The boy nodded.
“He told me never to call him Dad.”
My heart pounded.
“What do you call him?”
Ethan looked toward the hallway.
“Dr. Bennett.”
Claire gasped.
I turned toward the ICU doors.
Adrian Bennett.
The physician who had delivered my babies.
The man who saved Claire.
The man whose badge had been used during the poisoning.
Ethan whispered:
“Dr. Adrian Bennett is my father.”
May you like
And suddenly the man standing outside our room wasn't just Claire's doctor.
He was my brother.
