Chapter 41: The Lucid Moment

The needle was an inch from her arm when Elena moved. She didn't scream; she didn't beg. She simply dropped her purse, and as the nurse’s eyes flickered down to the noise, Elena swung her arm up, knocking the syringe into the air.

It skittered across the linoleum, leaking clear fluid.

The nurse gasped, her professional mask shattering into shock. "Mrs. Hawthorne, you're making this difficult."

"I'm making it impossible," Elena panted.

She shoved the nurse backward. The woman stumbled against a rolling tray of instruments. Elena didn't wait for her to recover. She grabbed the heavy steel serving cart from the foot of the bed and rammed it into the nurse's midsection, pinning her against the wall.

"Stay there," Elena hissed.

She dragged the heavy armchair over, wedging it against the cart, trapping the woman in the corner. The nurse shouted for security, but the door was thick, and the TV was blaring.

Elena turned back to the bed. Her time was bleeding away.

"Dr. Thorne," she said, leaning over the rails. "Look at me."

The old man was trembling, pulling the sheet up to his chin. "I don't know you. I want to go home. Vane said I could go home."

"Vane isn't coming," Elena said. "He sent her to silence you." She pointed at the struggling nurse. "Just like he silenced the baby."

Thorne squeezed his eyes shut. "I played golf on Tuesdays. The greens were fast that year. Very fast."

"Stop it," Elena said, her voice cracking. "Stop hiding."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the photo she had stolen from the attic. The one of the replacement baby. The one with the detached earlobes and the smile that appeared overnight.

She shoved it into his field of vision.

"Who is this child?"

Thorne opened one eye. He looked at the photo. He tried to look away, but Elena held it steady.

"It's the boy," he whispered. "The new one."

"Where did he come from?"

"The storm," Thorne mumbled. "He came out of the storm. Vane brought him in a blanket. He was wet. Shivering."

"Was he healthy?"

"He was... damaged," Thorne said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Bruises. On his wrists. On his ankles. Like he'd been tied up."

Elena felt the bile rise. Julian. Her husband. Tied up in a cellar for three years.

"And you signed the birth certificate," she said. "You said he was Julian Hawthorne."

"Vane said it was the only way," Thorne whined. "To save the legacy. To save the mother."

"Which mother?" Elena asked sharply. "Constance? Or the other one?"

Thorne blinked, his watery eyes focusing on Elena with sudden, terrifying clarity.

"The red-haired woman," he said. "She was there. Screaming. She wanted to keep him. Vane... Vane made her sign."

"Sign what?"

"The release. The silence." Thorne’s hand shot out, gripping Elena’s wrist with surprising strength. "He has a mark, you know. That's how we knew he was the one."

"A mark?" Elena asked. "The bruises?"

"No," Thorne said. He tapped his own hip bone. "A birthmark. A port-wine stain. Right here."

Elena froze. She had seen Julian naked a thousand times. She knew every inch of his skin. He didn't have a port-wine stain.

"He doesn't have a mark," she said.

"He does," Thorne insisted, his eyes wide and frantic. "Vane checked. It was the proof. The proof of the bloodline. Vane has it too."

"Silas Vane doesn't have a birthmark," Elena said.

"Not Silas," Thorne whispered. "The father. The real father."

The door handle rattled violently. A key card beeped. Security.

"Who was the father, Aris?" Elena demanded, shaking him.

"The artist," Thorne gasped. "The one Vane ruined. The one who died in the fire."

The door burst open. Two security guards filled the frame, batons drawn. Vane was behind them, his face a mask of calm fury.

Elena looked at Thorne one last time.

"What shape?" she asked. "What shape was the mark?"

Thorne looked at Vane. He smiled, a senile, broken smile.

"A bird," he whispered. "A little red bird."