Chapter 41: The Surveillance

The name *Blackwood Asylum* was a ghost story, a place parents threatened their children with when they misbehaved. It was closed down years ago, gutted by fire.

Or so I thought.

"He's psychotic," Marcus continued, his voice calm, professional, as if discussing a zoning variance. "Eleanor put him away because he tried to set Vane Manor on fire with Catherine inside it. He claimed he was 'purifying' the bloodline."

I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles white. "But Mrs. Higgins said... she said Julian left."

"Mrs. Higgins is a romantic. She preferred the story of the star-crossed lover fleeing to New Zealand over the reality of the criminally insane arsonist rotting in a private wing of a state facility."

"Wait," I said. "You said Blackwood Asylum. That place burned down."

"Only the main building. The private annex... the one funded by the Vane Trust... remained operational until last week. When a certain patient overpowered a nurse and walked out the front door."

My blood turned to ice.

"He has my children," I whispered. "He thinks they're his."

"No," Marcus corrected. "He knows they're not. He knows Adam—the real Adam—is dead. Died in the fire he set. That's why he snapped."

"Adam is alive," I said. "Mrs. Higgins said—"

"Mrs. Higgins is senile. Adam died in 1999. Gabriel... the man you call Julian... he's not looking for his son. He's looking for replacements."

I looked at the box on the desk. The photos. The rattle.

"But the baby in 2002," I said. "Adoption papers."

"A fabrication," Marcus said. "To keep Catherine placated. She was catatonic after the fire. We told her she had another baby. We even hired an actress to play the nurse. But there was no baby. Just a doll."

A doll.

I thought of the painting. Richard holding a baby.

"Then who is Leo?" I asked. "Who is Sam?"

Marcus sighed. He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He poured two glasses.

"Your sons are exactly who you think they are, Elena. Richard's biological children. But the mother wasn't Catherine."

He slid a glass toward me.

"It was Eleanor."

I stared at him. The words didn't make sense. Eleanor was their grandmother.

"It was a donor egg," Marcus said, taking a sip. "Eleanor's. Harvested thirty years ago and frozen. Richard used a surrogate. He wanted to ensure the bloodline remained... pure. Undiluted by outside DNA. Undiluted by you."

I felt the room spin. My sons... my beautiful, normal sons... were the product of some twisted, incestuous science experiment?

"Why?" I choked out.

"Control," Marcus said simply. "If the children are genetically Eleanor's, she has ultimate custody. She has rights that supersede yours. That's why the annulment works. You have no biological claim. You were just the nanny."

He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the marina lights.

"But Gabriel... Gabriel is the wild card. He knows the truth about the fire. He knows Eleanor set it to kill him and Adam. And now he has the only things Eleanor cares about."

"My children."

"Her heirs," Marcus corrected. "He's not going to hurt them, Elena. He's going to trade them."

"For what?"

"For Catherine."

I stood up, grabbing the box. "We have to go. We have to stop him."

"We can't," Marcus said. "If we go to the police, Eleanor exposes the fraud. You go to jail. I get disbarred. And the boys disappear into the foster system, where Eleanor can buy them back."

"So what do we do?"

He turned back to me. His eyes were hard. Calculating.

"We give him what he wants. We give him Catherine."

"She's sedated! She's locked in the guest house!"

"And you have the keys," he said, pointing to my purse. "Don't you?"

I touched the purse. Mrs. Higgins' keys were inside.

"I can't kidnap her," I said.

"It's not kidnapping if she wants to go. And believe me, Elena... she wants to go."

My phone buzzed.

Another text from *Julian Vane*.

*Midnight is in one hour. Don't be late. And bring the silver polish.*

The silver polish.

I looked at my bag. The heavy glass bottle I had taken from the kitchen.

Why would he want silver polish?

"Marcus," I said. "Does silver polish mean anything to you?"

He frowned. "No. Why?"

"Because he asked for it."

Marcus went pale.

"It's not polish," he whispered. "It's accelerant. That bottle... Mrs. Higgins kept her special blend in an old gin bottle. It's almost pure turpentine."

He looked at me.

"He's not going to trade them, Elena. He's going to finish what he started in '99. He's going to burn it all down."