Chapter 30: The Lockbox

I didn't stop until I hit the tree line. The damp earth soaked through my torn stockings, and my lungs burned with every gasp of cold air, but I kept running. The metal box dug into my side, a hard, reassuring weight against my ribs.

I found a deer trail and followed it, moving deeper into the woods that bordered the Vane estate. I knew these woods. I used to run here in the mornings, back when I thought my biggest problem was getting the twins to soccer practice on time.

I collapsed against an old oak tree, sliding down until I hit the mossy ground. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold the box.

It was painted a dull, industrial grey. The lock was simple, a standard key mechanism, but without the key, it was a steel brick.

"Think, Elena," I whispered, wiping sweat and dirt from my forehead.

I rummaged through my purse. The burner phone receipt. The stolen diary. The passports.

And my car keys.

I pulled out the keyring. There was a small, flat tool attached to it—a multi-purpose opener Richard had given me years ago as a joke stocking stuffer. "For the woman who can fix anything," he'd said.

I wedged the flat end into the gap between the lid and the box. I pushed. The metal groaned, but held.

I shifted my grip and leaned my weight into it.

*Snap.*

The latch gave way.

I threw the lid open.

Inside, resting on a bed of yellowed tissue paper, were stacks of Polaroids. Dozens of them.

I picked up the first stack.

They were dated. *June 2002.* *July 2002.* *August 2002.*

They showed a pregnant woman. Catherine. She was young, her face fuller, her eyes bright with a mixture of fear and hope. She was standing in front of the small house in the desert. The one from the painting.

I flipped through them faster.

*September 2002.* Catherine holding a newborn baby.

A boy.

He had Richard’s dark hair. But his eyes... even in the grainy photo, his eyes were unmistakable.

They were mine. Or rather, they were the eyes of my son, Leo.

The resemblance was terrifying.

I dropped the photo, my hand flying to my mouth.

It wasn't possible.

I dug deeper into the box. Under the photos was a velvet pouch. Heavy. Expensive.

I loosened the drawstring and tipped it over.

A gold rattle spilled out. Engraved on the side were initials.

*J.V.*

Julian Vane?

But Julian was Richard's brother. The one who disappeared. The one Mrs. Higgins told me to find.

Wait.

I grabbed the diary from my purse. I flipped to the entry from October 1999.

*The baby came early... Eleanor took him.*

But the photos were dated 2002.

Two babies?

No. The diary dates were wrong. Or the photos were.

I looked closer at the Polaroid of the baby. In the background, on a table, was a newspaper. I squinted, trying to read the headline.

*Nevada Sun. October 16, 2002.*

The diary said 1999. The photo said 2002.

And then I saw it. Tucked at the very bottom of the box, folded into a tight square.

A letter.

It was written on Vane Construction letterhead. Dated November 2002.

*To Whom It May Concern:*

*This letter confirms the placement of the infant male, born October 14, 2002, into the care of the State of Nevada Department of Child and Family Services. The mother, Catherine Vane, has been deemed unfit due to severe postpartum psychosis.*

*Signed, Eleanor Vane.*

They gave him away. They put him in the system.

But there was a second page. A handwritten note, clipped to the back.

*Eleanor,*
*The adoption is finalized. The records are sealed. The boy is gone. We can proceed with the merger.*
*– R.*

Richard.

He knew. He helped.

I stared at the signature. It was shaky, as if written under duress. Or while drunk.

I put the letter down. My hands were trembling so hard the paper rattled against the desk.

Two babies? No.

The diary date was 1999. The photo was 2002.

Catherine had two children.

One in 1999. One in 2002.

And both of them were gone.

I looked at the photo of Richard holding the baby again. The one from the painting.

He wasn't holding his son. He was holding his nephew.

Or...

I picked up the photo of Catherine and the baby again. I looked at the baby's face.

Leo.

My son Leo was adopted. We adopted him when he was three days old. A closed adoption. Sealed records.

Richard had handled everything. "A private arrangement," he'd said. "A favor from a friend."

I felt the world tilt on its axis.

Leo wasn't a stranger's child.

He was Catherine's son.

And Richard... Richard was his uncle. Or his father?

I grabbed the last item in the box. A torn photograph.

It showed Catherine in a wedding veil. Holding hands with a man.

The man's face was ripped away. Only his hand remained.

On his finger was a ring. A heavy gold signet ring with the Vane crest.

Richard wore that ring.

But so did Julian.

I stared at the torn photo. The missing face.

Who was the father?

And where was the other baby? The one from 1999?

A twig snapped behind me.

I spun around, clutching the box to my chest.

A figure stood in the shadows of the trees. Watching me.

It wasn't Richard. It wasn't a guard.

It was a man I had never seen before. But I knew his face.

Because it was the face in the portrait Catherine had hidden under the bed.

The face of the man who supposedly didn't exist.

Julian Vane.