Chapter 11 - THE HOUSE WHERE I WAS BORN
The address on the screen had been burned into my memory long before I understood why.
My childhood home.
The white house on a quiet street in Connecticut where my father had taught me how to ride a bicycle.
Where my mother had baked birthday cakes.
Where I had spent every Christmas until the night my father supposedly died.
Where I had been told my mother had disappeared.
Where every photograph of my childhood seemed to end abruptly.
And now I was standing in the back of an armored SUV with Adrian Blackwood beside me, Ethan across from us, and three security vehicles following behind.
Nobody spoke.
Rain tapped against the windows.
My hands rested over my empty stomach.
I kept imagining three tiny babies in incubators hundreds of miles away.
Then another thought came.
Three babies that might not be the first.
My mother's words wouldn't leave my mind.
Your first three babies were taken from you before you even knew you were pregnant.
It sounded impossible.
Yet everything impossible had become possible in the last forty-eight hours.
Adrian noticed my hands trembling.
“You should rest.”
“I've rested enough.”
“You nearly died.”
“My babies are still in danger.”
He looked at me.
“So are you.”
“I've been in danger for twenty-eight years.”
His expression tightened.
“I know.”
I turned toward him.
“You knew about my father.”
“Yes.”
“You knew my mother might be alive.”
“Yes.”
“You knew Ethan's family was involved.”
“Yes.”
“And you still didn't tell me.”
“I was trying to find proof.”
“While I was living with Ethan?”
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
Adrian didn't answer.
Ethan finally spoke.
“Because Adrian thought I was the threat.”
I turned toward him.
“You were.”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
The SUV suddenly slowed.
A security officer spoke through the intercom.
“We're two minutes out.”
Adrian checked his weapon.
Ethan did the same.
I looked at them.
“You're both armed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Adrian looked out the window.
“Because we're going to a house where someone has been hiding a secret for twenty-eight years.”
The vehicle stopped.
I stepped outside.
The house looked exactly as I remembered.
White siding.
Blue shutters.
Oak tree beside the driveway.
Even the cracked stone step where I had fallen when I was nine.
I walked toward the front door.
My hands shook.
Adrian stayed beside me.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“If anything feels wrong—”
“Everything feels wrong.”
He nodded.
“Fair enough.”
The door was unlocked.
We entered.
Dust covered the furniture.
But the house wasn't abandoned.
Fresh footprints crossed the floor.
Adrian raised his hand.
Everyone stopped.
He pointed toward the hallway.
A security officer moved forward.
Then came the sound.
A child's cry.
I froze.
“No.”
Another cry.
Soft.
Faint.
But unmistakable.
A baby.
I ran.
Adrian grabbed my arm.
“Wait.”
“That's a baby.”
“I know.”
“We have to find it.”
We moved down the hallway.
The crying became louder.
It was coming from beneath the floor.
Adrian found a hidden door.
He opened it.
A staircase descended.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
We went down.
At the bottom was a small room.
And inside was a crib.
Empty.
The crying came from a speaker.
A recording.
I covered my mouth.
Someone had wanted us to hear it.
Adrian found a table.
On it sat three envelopes.
Each had a name.
LUCAS.
NOAH.
GRACE.
My knees nearly gave out.
“They know their names.”
Adrian opened the first envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
A newborn baby.
Then another.
And another.
I stared.
“These aren't my babies.”
“No.”
“They're…”
Adrian's voice softened.
“Your first three.”
The room tilted.
I grabbed the table.
“No.”
The photographs showed three babies.
One boy.
Another boy.
A girl.
All with the same distinctive birthmark beneath their left ear.
My father's handwriting appeared beneath the photographs.
They survived.
I couldn't breathe.
“Where are they?”
No answer.
Then the lights turned on.
A projector activated.
My father appeared on the wall.
He looked exhausted.
Older than I remembered.
“If you're watching this,” he said, “then someone finally found the house.”
I began crying.
“Dad.”
He continued.
“Claire, I need you to listen carefully.”
The recording paused.
Then his expression changed.
Fear.
Real fear.
“The children you believe you lost were never miscarried.”
I stopped breathing.
“They were taken.”
My hand covered my mouth.
“By whom?”
My father's voice continued.
“Thomas Mercer.”
Ethan stepped forward.
“No.”
My father looked directly into the camera.
“Thomas believed the triplets were the key to completing Project Three.”
The screen flickered.
“But he was wrong.”
Adrian looked at me.
“What's he talking about?”
The video continued.
“The children were only the first stage.”
I stared.
“What was the second?”
My father whispered:
“My daughter.”
The screen went black.
A door slammed somewhere upstairs.
Adrian immediately turned.
“Stay here.”
I grabbed his arm.
“No.”
He looked at me.
“I won't lose anyone else.”
He nodded.
Then we heard footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Coming down the stairs.
A man appeared.
Thomas Mercer.
He looked at us.
And smiled.
“You found the house.”
Ethan raised his weapon.
“You're not taking anyone else.”
Thomas laughed.
“Ethan.”
He looked at his son.
“You still don't understand.”
Then he looked at me.
“Your father left you one more message.”
I stared.
“What?”
Thomas smiled.
“He lied.”
“About what?”
“Your first three children.”
My heart stopped.
“They weren't taken.”
Thomas's smile widened.
“They were given.”
“To whom?”
He looked at Adrian.
And said:
“To him.”
Adrian went completely still.
I looked at him.
“What does he mean?”
Adrian didn't answer.
Thomas laughed.
“Ask your billionaire protector where he found the three children twenty-eight years ago.”
Then the lights went out.
And Adrian whispered:
“Claire…”
May you like
His voice was broken.
“I need to tell you the truth.”
