Chapter 7 - The Face Behind the Missing Record
The face on the screen looked exactly like Ethan.
Not similar.
Not close.
Exactly.
Same dark hair.
Same sharp jaw.
Same gray-blue eyes.
Even the small scar near the right eyebrow was there.
Nia pressed herself against my side.
“Mommy?”
I wrapped both arms around her.
“Don't look.”
But I couldn't look away.
The video continued.
The younger Ethan stood beside Richard.
The other man stood behind them.
He was holding my newborn daughter.
I stared at the screen.
“That isn't Ethan.”
Ethan didn't answer.
Thomas looked like he had seen a ghost.
Daniel was frozen.
I turned toward all three men.
“Who is he?”
Nobody spoke.
“Who is that man?”
Ethan finally whispered:
“My brother.”
The word made no sense.
“You don't have a brother.”
“I was told I didn't.”
“Then who is he?”
Ethan stared at the screen.
“I don't know.”
Daniel stepped closer.
“You do.”
Ethan turned.
“Don't.”
“You saw him once.”
“When?”
“Before your mother died.”
Ethan's face tightened.
“I was ten.”
“You were eleven.”
“I don't remember.”
“You were supposed to forget.”
I looked at Daniel.
“Explain.”
Daniel pointed toward the screen.
“That man was Alexander Reeves.”
“The man from the birth record?”
“Yes.”
“But Alexander died twenty-eight years ago.”
Daniel nodded.
“He did.”
“Then how is he standing there?”
No one answered.
The video continued.
Richard turned toward the camera.
For the first time, I noticed someone else standing behind the equipment.
A nurse.
She was holding a clipboard.
Richard said something.
The audio was distorted.
I could only make out three words.
“Take her away.”
My stomach dropped.
The nurse moved toward Nia.
I grabbed my daughter's hand.
“No.”
The video froze.
The screen went black.
Then white letters appeared.
ARCHIVE 16 — ORIGINAL FOOTAGE
Thomas stared.
“This wasn't supposed to exist.”
Ethan looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because Richard destroyed it.”
Daniel shook his head.
“He thought he did.”
I looked at the screen.
“Can we replay it?”
Thomas moved toward the projector.
“No.”
“Why?”
“The system is remote.”
“Then disconnect it.”
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
He pointed toward the ceiling.
“Someone else is controlling it.”
The speakers crackled.
A man's voice filled the room.
“Correct.”
I pulled Nia behind me.
Ethan stepped forward.
“Who are you?”
The voice laughed softly.
“You've asked that question for years.”
Ethan looked around.
“Show yourself.”
“Not yet.”
I shouted:
“Where is my daughter supposed to go?”
A pause.
Then:
“Home.”
“She is home with me.”
“No.”
The voice became colder.
“She has never been home.”
I felt Nia's fingers tighten around mine.
“Stop talking about her.”
“Why?”
“Because she is a child.”
“And that is exactly why everyone has lied.”
Daniel looked at the ceiling.
“You're wasting time.”
The voice replied:
“Time is the only thing any of you have left.”
A countdown appeared on the projector.
14:00
I stared at it.
“What is that?”
The voice answered.
“Fourteen minutes.”
“For what?”
“To open the final archive.”
Thomas went pale.
“No.”
I turned toward him.
“What is the final archive?”
He shook his head.
“There is no final archive.”
The voice laughed.
“There is.”
A metal panel opened in the wall behind us.
A small keypad appeared.
Thomas stepped backward.
“I never saw that.”
Ethan approached it.
“There are six digits.”
Daniel looked at me.
“Do you know the code?”
“No.”
Thomas stared at Nia.
Then at the bracelet.
“Maybe she does.”
I frowned.
“What?”
He pointed toward the bracelet.
“The date.”
“May sixteenth?”
“Try 0516.”
Ethan entered the numbers.
The keypad flashed red.
ACCESS DENIED.
The countdown dropped.
12:47
Daniel said:
“Birth time.”
I looked at him.
“3:41.”
Ethan entered 0341.
Red again.
ACCESS DENIED.
Thomas suddenly looked toward the bracelet.
“Not the birth time.”
“What?”
“The time the bracelet was logged.”
I remembered the photograph.
The hospital clock.
3:56.
Ethan entered 0356.
The keypad turned green.
The wall unlocked.
A narrow compartment opened.
Inside was a black metal box.
No lock.
No label.
Just one handwritten word:
SARAH
I stared at it.
“That's mine.”
Ethan reached for it.
I stopped him.
“No.”
“I'll open it.”
“I said no.”
I took the box myself.
It was heavier than it looked.
I placed it on the table.
Nia stood beside me.
“Mommy?”
“Stay back.”
I opened the lid.
Inside were photographs.
Dozens of them.
Me.
Nia.
My mother.
Richard.
Ethan.
Daniel.
Dates were written across the backs.
Some were from before Nia was born.
Some were from after.
I picked up one photograph.
It showed me outside Boston Mercy.
I was pregnant.
Eight months.
Someone had taken the photograph from across the street.
I looked at the date.
APRIL 21.
I picked up another.
Nia at three months old.
Another at six months.
Another at one year.
Someone had been watching her.
For years.
I felt sick.
“Who took these?”
Daniel said nothing.
Ethan took one.
His expression changed.
“This was taken inside my house.”
I looked at it.
He was right.
Nia was sitting on the floor in my old apartment.
She was two years old.
I was in the kitchen.
Neither of us had noticed the camera.
I flipped it over.
A single word was written on the back.
SAFE.
Another photograph.
Nia at three.
Same word.
SAFE.
I looked at Ethan.
“Who was protecting her?”
He didn't answer.
Thomas did.
“Your mother.”
I froze.
“My mother died six months before Nia was born.”
“Yes.”
“How could she?”
Thomas looked at me.
“She didn't.”
My hands went numb.
“What?”
“Your mother was alive when Nia was born.”
“No.”
“I saw her.”
“Where?”
“At Boston Mercy.”
“When?”
“May sixteenth.”
My heart pounded.
“You're lying.”
“I saw her in the hallway.”
“What did she look like?”
“Older.”
“Was she alone?”
“No.”
“Who was with her?”
Thomas looked at Ethan.
“Richard.”
I shook my head.
“My mother hated Richard Reeves.”
“That's what she told you.”
I looked down at the photographs.
There was one more.
I picked it up.
My mother stood outside the hospital.
Beside her was Richard.
Between them was a baby carrier.
Nia.
I stared at the picture until my vision blurred.
My mother was smiling.
Not crying.
Not frightened.
Smiling.
I turned it over.
Three words.
SHE CHOSE THIS.
I dropped it.
“No.”
Daniel picked it up.
His expression changed.
“What?”
I grabbed it back.
“That's impossible.”
Daniel stared at the photograph.
“Sarah.”
“What?”
“This picture was taken after your mother supposedly died.”
I looked at the date.
MAY 17.
The day after Nia was born.
My mother's death certificate said she had died six months earlier.
Someone had forged it.
Or someone had faked her death.
I felt my knees weaken.
Ethan caught my arm.
“Sarah.”
I pulled away.
“Don't touch me.”
He stopped.
I looked at him.
“Your family knew my mother.”
“Yes.”
“They knew about Nia.”
“Yes.”
“They watched us.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew something.”
“I suspected.”
“You always say that.”
His face tightened.
“I didn't know the truth.”
“Then find it.”
He nodded.
“I will.”
The speaker crackled again.
The countdown showed:
06:18
The voice returned.
“You're finally asking the right questions.”
I shouted:
“Where is my mother?”
Silence.
Then:
“Closer than you think.”
I looked around.
“What does that mean?”
No answer.
Instead, the projector showed another image.
A woman sitting in a chair.
Silver hair.
Thin face.
Dark blue cardigan.
My breath stopped.
I knew that woman.
I hadn't seen her in years.
But I knew her face.
I knew the slight tilt of her head.
The small scar near her chin.
The way she held her hands when she was nervous.
My mother.
Alive.
She looked directly into the camera.
Then she spoke.
“Sarah, if you're watching this, they finally found Nia.”
I couldn't move.
Nia whispered:
“Is that Grandma?”
I covered my mouth.
My mother continued.
“Do not trust Richard.”
A pause.
“Do not trust Daniel.”
Daniel looked at the screen.
Then her voice changed.
“Most importantly, do not trust the man standing beside you.”
The camera shifted.
My mother looked directly at Ethan.
Then she said:
“Because he is not my son.”
The screen went black.
Ethan stepped backward.
Thomas whispered:
“No.”
Daniel stared at him.
I stared at Ethan.
Then the basement door behind us opened.
A woman's voice called softly from the darkness.
“Sarah?”
May you like
I turned.
And my mother stepped into the light.
