The bullet had entered my father's upper shoulder.
It wasn't immediately life-threatening, but there was enough blood to turn my hands red when I pressed a towel against the wound.
Agent Crane called for an ambulance.
My father kept telling me he was fine.
He wasn't.
Neither was I.
The shooting changed everything.
We had been investigating secrets.
Now someone had tried to kill us.
Agent Crane locked down the house.
Martin searched every room again.
Rebecca sat on the floor near the stairs, trembling.
I remained beside my father.
“Who would shoot you?”
He gave a tired smile.
“Someone who doesn't want me talking.”
“About what?”
He looked at me.
“The second child.”
I stared.
“You know something.”
He closed his eyes.
“I've suspected something for years.”
“What?”
“That you were not the only baby born that night.”
My breath caught.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I had no proof.”
“You had enough to lie.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I was afraid.”
“For yourself?”
“For you.”
I pulled the bloodstained towel away.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it's true.”
“Then tell me the whole truth.”
He looked toward Rebecca.
She nodded.
My father swallowed.
“Your mother gave birth to twins.”
The word seemed to echo through the room.
Twins.
I stared at him.
“Me and who?”
“We never knew.”
“That's impossible.”
“The second baby disappeared before sunrise.”
“Who took the baby?”
“We believed Thomas Blackwood's people.”
“Why?”
“Because Thomas had been negotiating with Nathaniel.”
My father struggled to sit upright.
“Nathaniel discovered the trust.”
“What did he discover?”
“That the trust had been created to control a network of people through their secrets.”
“And the babies?”
“They were supposed to be symbols of succession.”
I looked at Rebecca.
She nodded.
“Your mother refused.”
“She fought them.”
“Yes.”
“And that's why she disappeared.”
“Partly.”
“What else?”
Rebecca looked away.
My father answered.
“Your mother believed someone inside our family had helped arrange the kidnapping.”
“Who?”
He didn't answer.
I already knew the question would eventually reach Ethan.
But there was another possibility.
My father.
I looked at him.
“Did you take my sibling?”
He looked horrified.
“No.”
“Did you help anyone take the baby?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
He shook his head.
“We don't know.”
Agent Crane returned.
“The ambulance is coming.”
She looked at my father.
Then at me.
“I found something.”
She held up a plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a small piece of blue fabric.
“It was caught on the broken window.”
Rebecca stared.
“That pattern.”
“What?”
“It's from Noah's shirt.”
I took a step toward her.
“How do you know?”
“Because I bought it.”
Agent Crane looked at the photograph.
Noah was wearing a blue shirt.
The same fabric.
“So the shooter had Noah nearby?”
“Or the photograph was staged.”
Rebecca shook her head.
“No. That is his shirt.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The background was blue.
But now I noticed something else.
A wooden frame behind Noah.
Carved into it were two letters.
S.W.
I turned to my father.
“Samuel Whitaker.”
He nodded.
But his expression changed.
“No.”
“What?”
“Those initials were carved into my crib.”
I remembered the blue room.
Two cribs.
S.W.
T.B.
“What if the photograph wasn't taken in a second blue room?”
My father stared.
“What if it's the same room?”
Agent Crane looked at me.
“That would mean Noah was inside this house.”
Rebecca stood.
“No.”
“He could have been.”
“But we searched it.”
“Not completely.”
Martin suddenly ran toward the stairs.
“There may be another room.”
He returned with a floor plan.
The blue room sat above an unfinished basement.
A section of the foundation had been sealed.
Agent Crane looked at the diagram.
“There's a crawlspace.”
My father shook his head.
“That was sealed before I was born.”
“Then someone reopened it.”
We went downstairs.
Behind a storage cabinet, we found fresh scratches on the concrete.
Martin moved the cabinet aside.
There was a narrow door.
Locked.
I held up my mother's key.
It fit.
The door opened.
Cold air rushed out.
A staircase descended into darkness.
Agent Crane went first.
We followed.
The basement smelled of earth and damp stone.
At the bottom was another room.
Blue walls.
A wooden chair.
A table.
A single lamp.
And on the wall, dozens of photographs.
My mother.
Nathaniel.
Rebecca.
My father.
Ethan.
Me.
Noah.
Someone had been watching all of us for decades.
I walked toward the photographs.
One showed my mother holding me.
Another showed her holding a second infant.
The baby's face was covered.
I pulled it down.
Underneath was a date.
March 18, 1978.
The day after my birth.
Another photograph showed my mother leaving the house with a baby.
A man stood beside her.
I recognized him.
My grandfather.
My hands went cold.
“He took the baby.”
My father stared.
“That can't be.”
“It is.”
Rebecca whispered, “No.”
I looked at her.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
She pointed toward another photograph.
It showed my grandfather handing the baby to someone.
The recipient was a young woman.
I recognized her.
Margaret Blackwood.
I couldn't breathe.
“Ethan's mother.”
Rebecca nodded.
“She was there.”
My father backed against the wall.
“No.”
The room seemed to close around us.
Margaret had taken the baby.
But why?
I found another photograph.
Margaret carrying the infant into a car.
The license plate belonged to a Blackwood property.
Then I saw the next photograph.
A teenage Ethan standing beside the car.
He was too young to remember.
But the date was written beneath it.
1997.
Ethan had been nineteen.
He had known.
I felt sick.
“Ethan knew about the second child.”
My father whispered, “Yes.”
“That's why he married me?”
Rebecca shook her head.
“No.”
“What then?”
“He married you because he loved you.”
I stared at her.
“You can't know that.”
“I know what your mother believed.”
“What did she believe?”
“That Ethan's feelings were real.”
I laughed.
“After he hit me?”
Rebecca lowered her eyes.
“Your mother didn't know that.”
I looked at the photographs.
Maybe Ethan had loved me.
Maybe he had also lied to me.
Both could be true.
Then Agent Crane found a file.
She opened it.
Inside was a medical record.
The patient name was blank.
The date was March 18, 1978.
Two births.
One female.
One male.
The male infant had a distinctive birthmark.
Agent Crane looked at me.
“Does Noah have a birthmark?”
Rebecca froze.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Behind his left ear.”
My stomach dropped.
The clue from years ago suddenly made sense.
The boy who had disappeared wasn't merely connected to Nathaniel.
He carried the same identifying mark described in the old medical file.
I looked at the photograph.
Noah's hair had been pushed behind one ear.
There it was.
A small crescent-shaped mark.
My father whispered, “No.”
I turned toward him.
“What?”
He stared at the photograph.
“That mark.”
“You know it.”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
He swallowed.
“Your mother told me your brother had it.”
Brother.
Not stranger.
Not code.
Brother.
I looked at the photograph of the two infants.
Then at Noah.
Then at my father.
“You knew my brother was alive.”
He shook his head.
“I suspected.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
His eyes filled.
“I saw him once.”
“When?”
“Sixteen years ago.”
My breath stopped.
“Where?”
“At a hospital.”
“Was it Noah?”
“I don't know.”
“Why didn't you find out?”
“Because your mother begged me not to.”
Rebecca covered her face.
“She knew.”
I turned.
“Your mother knew Noah was your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't she tell me?”
“Because she feared what would happen if the people behind the trust learned you were connected.”
“What people?”
Rebecca pointed to the wall.
One photograph showed Thomas Blackwood.
Another showed my grandfather.
A third showed a man I didn't recognize.
Beneath him was a name.
Judge Daniel Whitaker.
My father's uncle.
My grandfather's brother.
Another name.
Margaret Blackwood.
Another.
Charles Blackwood.
Another.
Samuel Whitaker.
I stared at the list.
Then at one final name.
Evelyn Whitaker.
My mother.
Beside her name was a handwritten note.
THE ONLY ONE WHO REFUSED.
I felt something inside me break.
My mother hadn't disappeared because she was weak.
She had disappeared because she refused to cooperate.
Agent Crane closed the file.
“We need to find Noah.”
I nodded.
“But first we need to know who took him.”
A sound came from above.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Someone was walking through the blue room.
Agent Crane raised her weapon.
Everyone went silent.
The footsteps stopped.
Then a voice called down the stairs.
“Charlotte?”
My heart stopped.
Ethan.
Agent Crane whispered, “Stay behind me.”
Ethan appeared at the top of the stairs.
His face was bruised.
Blood stained his collar.
He looked directly at me.
“I know where Noah is.”
I stepped forward.
“Where?”
Ethan's expression changed.
“With your mother.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: Ethan Led Us Toward My Mother at Last, but the Truth About Who Held Noah Made His Final Confession Impossible to Ignore
One Question About His Missing Night Turned a Quiet Marriage Into Something I Could No Longer Pretend Was Safe
Part 7 of 20
