Chapter 2: The Baby Who Never Died
For several seconds, I couldn't hear anything except the blood rushing through my ears.
Marcus was kneeling on the marble floor, surrounded by the glittering fragments of my champagne glass.
My mother stood motionless beside him.
The guests watched us as if they'd accidentally wandered into a funeral.
I held the hospital bracelet between two fingers.
“Someone explain this,” I said.
My voice sounded strangely calm.
Marcus lifted his head.
“Nia, I can explain.””
“Then explain.””
He glanced at my mother.
She folded her arms.
“Go ahead, Marcus. Tell her how you explained it to me.””
His face twisted.
“You promised you would never bring this up.””
“I promised to protect my daughter. I never promised to protect you.””
I looked from one to the other.
“What happened three years before I was born?””
My mother swallowed.
“Your father and I had another child.””
The room seemed to shrink around me.
“Another child?””
“A daughter.””
I looked at the photograph again. The newborn's tiny face was turned toward the camera, one fist resting beside her cheek.
“Where is she?””
My mother began to cry.
“We were told she died.””
The words fell between us like stones.
I shook my head.
“You were told?””
“Yes.””
“You were her mother. How could you not know?””
My mother's face crumpled.
“Because I was twenty-six years old, Nia. Because I had just given birth after a difficult pregnancy. Because your father told me the doctors had done everything they could.””
“And you believed him?””
“I had no reason not to.””
I looked at Marcus.
“Why are you in this photograph?””
He slowly rose to his feet.
“Because I was there.””
“That isn't an explanation.””
“No,” he admitted.
“It isn't.””
Tessa pushed through the crowd and reached my side.
“Everyone needs to give Nia some space.””
A few guests reluctantly moved away. Others lingered, pretending to check their phones while watching every movement.
My mother wiped her cheeks.
“Your father discovered something at the hospital. Something that changed everything.””
“What?””
“He found out that our baby had been transferred to another department before we were told she had died.””
“Transferred where?””
“I don't know.””
“You don't know?”” I repeated.
“I was recovering. Your father handled everything. He said the hospital had made a mistake, that there were legal complications, that we couldn't do anything until the investigation was finished.””
“And Marcus?””
My fiancé rubbed both hands over his face.
“My father worked for the hospital's medical records contractor,” he said.
“I was a teenager. I accompanied him to the hospital that night.””
“You expect me to believe this is a coincidence?””
“No.””
His answer stunned me.
He looked directly into my eyes.
“I don't expect you to believe anything right now.””
My mother pulled a chair away from a nearby table and sat down heavily.
“Your father spent months investigating what happened to that baby. He hired a private investigator. He went through hospital records. He spoke to nurses.””
“What did he find?””
“He believed the child had survived.””
I stared at her.
“Then why did he never tell me?””
“Because he died before he could prove it.””
The memory came back without warning: my father's final winter, the smell of antiseptic in his hospital room, his thin fingers wrapped around mine.
I'd been twenty-two.
Two days before he died, he'd asked me whether I believed people could spend their whole lives hiding from one mistake.
I'd laughed and told him everyone made mistakes.
He hadn't laughed with me.
Instead, he'd whispered, “Some mistakes become other people's entire lives.””
At the time, I'd thought he was talking about his business.
Now I wasn't so sure.
Marcus stepped closer.
“Your father contacted me five years ago.””
My head snapped up.
“What?””
“He asked me to meet him.””
“When?””
“Six months before he died.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because he made me promise not to.””
My mother shot to her feet.
“Don't you dare blame him for your silence.””
“I'm not blaming anyone,” Marcus said.
“I'm telling her what happened.””
“Then tell her everything.””
He looked at me.
“Your father showed me documents suggesting that the baby had been placed with another family. He thought the adoption might have been arranged illegally.””
I clutched the letter.
“And you knew all this when you proposed to me?””
“Yes.””
The answer hurt more than the slap.
“How long have you known?””
“Five years.””
Five years.
Five years of dinners with my mother. Five years of holidays, birthdays, family photographs, and whispered plans for our future.
Five years of Marcus looking into my eyes and telling me there were no secrets between us.
I took one step backward.
“You let me fall in love with you while knowing this?””
“I did fall in love with you.””
“That wasn't my question.””
His shoulders sagged.
“I wanted to tell you. Every day, I wanted to tell you.””
“But you didn't.””
“No.””
“Why?””
He stared at the floor.
“Because the closer I got to you, the more afraid I became of what the truth might do to us.””
I laughed, but the sound broke halfway through.
“So you chose for me?””
“Nia—”
“You decided I couldn't handle the truth about my own family?””
“I thought I could find your sister before I told you.””
My heart lurched.
“Find her?””
Marcus nodded.
“I hired someone to investigate the hospital records. We found evidence that the adoption documents had been altered. Then the trail went cold.””
“Who altered them?””
“I don't know.””
My mother suddenly grabbed the edge of the table.
“Yes, you do.””
Marcus looked at her.
For the first time that night, his expression changed from fear to anger.
“Be careful, Evelyn.””
“Or what?”” she demanded.
“You'll destroy another life?””
Tessa slipped her hand into mine.
“Maybe we should get you out of here.””
I barely heard her.
I was staring at the photograph, searching the faces for something familiar.
Then I noticed the hospital sign behind my father.
St. Catherine's Medical Center.
My sister had been born there.
And my father had taken Marcus there.
I unfolded the letter with shaking hands.
The handwriting was unmistakably Dad's.
If you're reading this, I failed to find the truth while I was alive. I need you to know that your sister did not die. I have reason to believe she grew up under another name.
I stopped breathing.
The next paragraph was shorter.
The person who can identify her is someone you already know.
I looked at my mother.
She stared at the letter with a terror that seemed to come from somewhere far deeper than guilt.
“Who?”” I whispered.
She shook her head.
“I don't know.””
But her eyes moved toward Marcus.
He saw it.
And suddenly, the anger drained from his face.
“Evelyn,” he said quietly.
“Don't tell her that.””
I turned toward him.
“Tell me what?””
He looked at my mother, then at the photograph in my hand.
“My father kept a copy of the original hospital transfer record,” he said.
“Where is it?””
Marcus hesitated.
Then he reached into his jacket and removed his phone.
He opened a photograph of a document and handed it to me.
At the bottom of the page was a signature authorizing the transfer of the newborn girl.
I recognized the name immediately.
Not because I'd seen it in the news.
Not because it belonged to someone famous.
Because it appeared on every birthday card I'd received as a child.
The signature belonged to my father.
But beside it, in the box marked Receiving Guardian, was another name.
*Margaret Reed.*
Marcus's mother.
I looked up at him.
“Your mother took my sister?””
Marcus's face went white.
“My mother told me she adopted a baby girl when I was a teenager,” he said.
“She said the child's biological parents had died.””
“And you never wondered why your mother suddenly had a daughter?””
“She told me the girl was a distant relative.””
“What's her name?””
He couldn't answer.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“Marcus! What's her name?””
His phone vibrated in my hand.
A message appeared from an unknown number.
Stop looking for the girl. If Nia learns who she really is, neither of you will survive the wedding.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message arrived.
This one contained a photograph of a woman standing outside the ballroom.
She had dark hair, my mother's eyes, and a small crescent-shaped birthmark just beneath her left ear.
The same birthmark I had seen in my childhood photographs.
May you like
The message beneath the picture contained only four words.
She's standing behind you.
