Chapter 13: The Brother We Buried
For several seconds, nobody moved.
My mother sat at the kitchen table with her hands folded in front of her, staring at the photograph as if she could somehow force it to disappear.
Vanessa stood beside the refrigerator, one hand pressed against her mouth.
Michael had stopped writing.
And I was looking at a picture of my dead brother holding a newborn baby on the very night my daughter was born.
"Explain," I said.
My voice didn't sound like mine.
My mother flinched.
"Daniel, please sit down.""
"Don't tell me to sit down. You just told me we buried someone else instead of your son.""
Linda began to cry.
I slammed the photograph onto the table.
"Who did we bury?""
She shook her head.
"I don't know.""
"How can you not know?""
"Because Richard Cole handled everything after the accident. He said David's body had been badly damaged. He said identification would be difficult. He told us the authorities had confirmed it was him.""
Michael leaned forward.
"Did you see the body?""
"No.""
"Did you receive a death certificate?""
"Yes.""
"An autopsy report?""
My mother hesitated.
"I don't remember.""
"Did you attend the identification?""
She shook her head.
I stared at her.
"You buried your son without seeing his face?""
"I was told it was better that way.""
"By whom?""
"Richard Cole.""
The name hung between us.
Richard had controlled the hospital records, overseen Rosewood House, and signed documents that sent children into secret placements. Now his name was connected to my brother's supposed death.
Michael opened his laptop.
"I'm going to need every document you have relating to David's accident.""
My mother stood abruptly.
"There's a box in the attic.""
"Why didn't you tell me about it before?"" I demanded.
"Because David asked me never to open it.""
I felt sick.
"When did he ask you that?""
"Two days before the accident.""
I gripped the back of a chair.
"How can someone who supposedly died in a car crash two days later ask you to keep a secret?""
Linda looked at me with an expression I'd never seen on her face before.
"Because he knew someone was coming for him.""
The box was hidden behind a stack of old suitcases.
Inside were letters, a passport, several photographs, and a newspaper clipping about a fatal accident on a rural highway.
The report listed one victim: David Hayes.
The photograph accompanying the article showed a wrecked sedan burned almost beyond recognition.
But the car wasn't David's.
I knew that immediately.
David drove a blue truck. He'd sold the sedan years before the accident.
Michael checked the registration number in the clipping.
"The vehicle was registered to a company owned by Richard Cole.""
My mother sat on the attic floor.
"David told me he was helping someone investigate financial misconduct at St. Catherine's. He believed children had been removed from the hospital illegally and placed with families who didn't know the truth.""
I looked at the letters.
"Why didn't he go to the police?""
"He thought someone inside the police department was involved.""
Michael opened the passport.
It belonged to David.
The photograph was unmistakable, but the expiration date was recent.
"Someone renewed this passport," he said.
I felt a strange mixture of relief and rage.
My brother might be alive.
The man whose funeral I'd attended might have been someone else.
The years I'd spent grieving could have been built on a lie.
"Why did he disappear?"" I asked.
My mother looked at the photograph of David holding the newborn.
"Because he believed Maya was in danger.""
Vanessa suddenly sat down.
"Emily told me David had discovered the hospital's baby transfer scheme. She said he'd found evidence that Richard Cole was selling identities and moving children through private institutions.""
Michael looked at her.
"Selling identities?""
"Not necessarily selling children for money. It was more complicated. Richard arranged illegal placements, changed records, and made sure no one could trace the children afterward.
Some families believed they were adopting legally. Others were told their biological children had died.""
My stomach turned.
"Was Grace one of those children?""
Vanessa nodded slowly.
"Emily believed she was.""
"And Maya?""
"I don't know.""
I picked up the photograph again.
David was smiling down at the baby in his arms. His expression was tender, almost astonished.
On the back, beneath the message I'd already read, another line was visible in faded ink.
If anything happens to me, tell Daniel the truth about the girl in Room 12.
I stared at it.
"Room 12.""
Michael took the photograph.
"That's the room where Emily was recovering after the delivery.""
My mother covered her face.
"David told me he had a daughter. He said he couldn't protect her if he stayed.""
I turned toward her.
"Did he say Maya's name?""
"No.""
"Did he say Emily was the mother?""
"No.""
"Then what did he tell you?""
Linda's voice broke.
"He said there were two babies. One belonged to Emily. One belonged to someone else. And the hospital was going to make sure neither family ever learned the truth.""
Michael began sorting through the letters.
"There's a name here.""
He held up a folded page.
The handwriting matched David's.
Richard says the original records are secured. He claims he can protect the children if I leave the country. I don't believe him. If I disappear, look for the woman who keeps the second key.
Below that was a name.
*Margaret Lewis.*
The nurse whose notes had started our investigation.
Michael shook his head.
"Margaret died years ago.""
"But her daughter is alive," I said.
"Patricia.""
He nodded.
"We need to contact her again.""
My phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
The message contained a location and a time.
*Old St. Catherine's records annex. Midnight. Come alone if you want to see your brother.*
I showed Michael.
"Absolutely not," he said.
"I'm going.""
"Then we're going together.""
The next message arrived before I could answer.
It contained a photograph.
A man stood beneath a streetlight, older and thinner than I remembered, with a scar running from his temple to his jaw.
But I knew his eyes.
I'd seen them in childhood photographs, at family dinners, and in the last image I'd carried to his funeral.
David.
The caption read:
*He wants to meet his daughter before the records disappear forever.*
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"Which daughter?"" Vanessa whispered.
I didn't know.
But as I looked at the photograph, I noticed something in David's hand.
A hospital bracelet.
Pink.
And on it, written in black ink, was a name.
*MAYA.*
At eleven fifty-five, Michael and I parked two streets from the old records annex.
The building had been closed for years. Its windows were boarded, its entrance chained shut.
I carried the photograph in my pocket.
Michael carried a flashlight and a small recording device.
"If anyone tries to force you into a vehicle, you run," he said.
"Understood.""
"If David is alive, we don't know whether he's the man who sent the message.""
"I know.""
"And if he is alive, we don't know what he did.""
I looked at him.
"He was my brother.""
"That doesn't answer my question.""
Before I could respond, a side door opened.
A man stepped into the alley.
He looked older than the photograph, his hair almost entirely gray. The scar across his face was unmistakable.
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he spoke.
"You've got your father's eyes, Daniel.""
My throat tightened.
"David?""
He nodded.
I took one step toward him.
"You're alive.""
"Unfortunately, yes.""
I wanted to punch him. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to demand why he'd let me mourn him while he lived somewhere beyond my reach.
Instead, I asked the only question that mattered.
"Is Maya your daughter?""
David looked toward the darkened building.
Then he said, "Maya is the reason I disappeared.""
May you like
He opened the door wider.
"And Grace is the reason I came back.""
