Once. No answer. Again. Nothing. I called a third time. This time, the call went straight to voicemail. I stared at the screen. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Then my phone buzzed. A message had arrived. From Mark. I opened it. There were only seven words. Don’t believe anything that woman tells you. I stared at the message. Then another arrived. Come home. We need to talk. Alone.
I looked up at Elena. She was watching me. “You called him, didn’t you?” I nodded. Her expression turned terrified. “What did he say?” I slowly showed her the screen. She read the messages. Her face went completely white. “He knows,” she whispered. “Knows what?” She looked at Stefan. Then at Cole. Then back at me. “That you found them.” I frowned. “Found who?” She began crying.
“The twins.” My phone slipped from my hand. The principal stared at us. “Twins?” Elena nodded. “Eight years ago, there weren’t two mothers who lost their babies.” She took a shaky breath. “There was only one mother who lost two.” I stared at her. “What are you saying?” She looked directly into my eyes. “I think someone took one of your sons.” The room seemed to disappear around me. And for the first time in eight years, I allowed myself to ask the question I had been too afraid to ask.
“What happened to my other baby?”
Elena’s lips trembled.
“I think he’s been living with me.”
I looked at Stefan.
He looked back at me.
And suddenly, everything made sense.
The fights.
The strange claim that they were brothers.
The identical faces.
The same birthmark.
The same gray eyes.
But there was one question left.
Why had Mark done it?
And if Stefan was really my son…
Who had been buried in the grave Mark told me belonged to my baby?
That night, I drove home alone.
Cole was with my mother.
I couldn’t bear to bring him into whatever nightmare was unfolding.
The house was dark when I arrived.
Mark’s car was in the driveway.
I stood outside for several seconds, staring at it.
Then I noticed something.
The front door was slightly open.
My heart began pounding.
“Mark?”
No answer.
I stepped inside.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
I called his name again.
Nothing.
Then I heard a sound coming from upstairs.
A drawer closing.
I slowly climbed the stairs.
Every step creaked beneath my feet.
The bedroom door was open.
I pushed it wider.
Mark wasn’t there.
But the closet was.
And something inside it had been disturbed.
I walked toward it.
Behind a row of old coats, I noticed a small metal box.
I had never seen it before.
There was a key already inserted in the lock.
My hands were trembling.
I opened it.
Inside was a hospital bracelet.
Then another.
Two tiny bracelets.
I picked up the first.
My knees nearly buckled.
Underneath them was a folded document.
I opened it.
And the first sentence made my heart stop.
CONFIDENTIAL — NEONATAL TRANSFER RECORD
I read the names.
My name.
Mark’s name.
Elena’s name.
And beneath them was a handwritten note.
Infant B transferred to private custody at father’s request.
Father’s request.
Mark.
My hands went numb.
Then I saw the date.
June 16.
The day I woke up.
The day Mark told me my baby had died.
But the worst part wasn’t the document.
It was the photograph underneath it.
Two newborn boys.
One with light hair.
One with dark hair.
And standing behind them was Mark.
He was smiling.
Not grieving.
Smiling.
I dropped the photograph.
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I turned.
Mark was standing in the doorway.
His face was expressionless.
For several seconds, we stared at each other.
Then his eyes dropped to the open box.
“You weren’t supposed to find that.”
I could barely speak.
“Where is my son?”
Mark said nothing.
“Where is my baby?”
His jaw tightened.
I stepped toward him.
“You lied to me.”
He looked away.
“You said he died.”
“I had no choice.”
“No choice?”
My voice broke.
“You stole my child!”
Mark finally looked at me.
And there was something in his eyes I’d never seen before.
Fear.
“You don’t understand what happened that night.”
“Then tell me.”
He took a breath.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
He didn’t answer.
“From who?”
