Chapter 3 - The Secret My Mother Buried With My ChildhoodMy mother had been dead for twenty-three years.
At least, that was the story I had been told.
I had never seen her grave.
My father had said there was no point taking a child to a cemetery for someone she couldn't remember.
I had believed him.
Now Adrien was standing beside me in the security room, staring at the black screen.
“What do you remember about her?”
“Nothing.”
“Anything.”
“A song.”
He looked at me.
“What song?”
I began humming.
Adrien's face changed.
He knew it.
“You've heard it?”
“My father used to play it.”
Adrien closed his eyes.
Then whispered:
“That was Elena's song.”
“Elena?”
He nodded.
“The woman in the photograph.”
I stared at him.
“Who is she?”
“Your mother.”
I felt sick.
“No.”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
He turned toward me.
“I didn't know she had a daughter.”
“My father said she died.”
“So did everyone else.”
“Then why did you know the song?”
“Because my mother used to sing it to my sister.”
The two stories collided.
We spent the next day searching.
Birth records.
Hospital archives.
Old newspaper articles.
Nothing.
Then a file arrived from Baltimore.
A woman named Elena Carter.
Former accountant.
Worked for the Cross family twenty-three years earlier.
She disappeared after accusing a business partner of stealing money.
I stared.
“My mother.”
Adrien nodded.
“What was she accused of?”
“Theft.”
“She stole money?”
“Officially.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“She hid evidence.”
“Where?”
Adrien looked at me.
“With her children.”
I stared.
“Children?”
He opened another file.
Two birth certificates.
One for me.
One for an unnamed male infant.
I nearly stopped breathing.
“I had a brother?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“Missing.”
“Dead?”
“We don't know.”
I sat down.
Suddenly, childhood memories I couldn't explain began surfacing.
A second set of footsteps.
A crib beside mine.
A little boy's hand.
A lullaby.
Then silence.
My father had told me I imagined it.
Adrien saw my face.
“You remember.”
“I think so.”
“What?”
“A boy.”
He leaned closer.
“Your brother.”
“What happened to him?”
“My mother said we were separated.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
Adrien found another photograph.
Me as a baby.
My mother holding me.
And behind her, my father.
My father.
Alive.
The photograph had been taken at a Cross family property.
Adrien stared.
“That shouldn't exist.”
“Why?”
“My father hated yours.”
“Why?”
“Because your father stole something from him.”
“What?”
“A ledger.”
“What kind?”
Adrien looked at me.
“A ledger naming every person involved in the old Cross organization.”
“Why would my parents have it?”
“Because your mother was an accountant.”
“She wanted to expose them.”
“Yes.”
“And my father?”
Adrien looked away.
“He wasn't trying to expose anyone.”
“What was he doing?”
“Selling information.”
I covered my mouth.
“My father betrayed my mother.”
“Yes.”
“Then why would my mother trust him?”
“She didn't.”
Adrien pointed to the photograph.
“Your mother was already planning to leave.”
“What happened?”
“She disappeared.”
“Then why did everyone say she died?”
“Because someone wanted you to stop looking.”
I looked at him.
“Who?”
Adrien didn't answer.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A man's voice whispered:
“Charlotte?”
I froze.
It was a woman's voice in the background.
My mother.
I would have recognized her even after twenty-three years.
She whispered:
“Don't trust Adrien.”
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
Adrien saw my face.
“What?”
“My mother.”
He went still.
“What did she say?”
“Don't trust you.”
He nodded slowly.
“She would say that.”
“You know she's alive.”
“Yes.”
“You knew?”
“Not before today.”
“Then why don't you seem surprised?”
“Because if Elena survived, someone else has too.”
“Who?”
“Your father.”
My world collapsed again.
My father was alive.
The man I had believed dead was alive.
He had abandoned me.
Abandoned my mother.
And apparently had a connection to the Cross family.
Adrien ordered a search.
Three hours later, they found him.
Not in another city.
Not overseas.
In Chicago.
Living under the name James Carter.
My father.
I didn't want to see him.
Adrien went alone.
An hour later, he returned.
He looked exhausted.
“What did he say?”
Adrien sat down.
“He says your mother isn't hiding from him.”
“Then who?”
“You.”
I stared.
“What?”
“He believes whoever is after you will use you to reach her.”
“Why?”
“Because you have the key.”
“What key?”
Adrien placed something on the table.
A small silver pendant.
I recognized it.
My mother had worn it in every childhood photograph.
“She left this for you.”
I touched it.
The pendant opened.
Inside was a tiny photograph.
Me.
My brother.
And a date.
Twenty-four years ago.
On the back were four words.
ONE OF THEM LIVES.
I stared.
Adrien reached for his phone.
Before he could use it, every light in the mansion went out.
Then the backup generator failed.
The alarm sounded.
A gunshot echoed from downstairs.
Adrien grabbed his weapon.
“Stay here.”
I held onto his arm.
“No.”
“You don't know what's happening.”
“My daughter is downstairs.”
He looked at me.
Then nodded.
We ran.
The corridor was empty.
Then we found one of the guards.
Unconscious.
Beside him was a note.
Adrien picked it up.
Read it.
His expression darkened.
“What?”
He handed it to me.
The note said:
May you like
YOUR BROTHER ISN'T MISSING.
HE'S WORKING FOR US.
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