Chapter 25: The First Proof

I drove straight to the Sterling Estate. Not the main gate, where the cameras were, but the service entrance Ben had used. I didn't care about stealth anymore. I didn't care about consequences. I had a birth certificate in my pocket that said I was a ghost, and a receipt that said Mark was a stolen prop.

The gate was locked. I rammed my Honda into it.

The metal groaned and bent, the lock snapping with a sound like a gunshot. My airbag didn't deploy—too old, probably—but my head whipped forward.

I reversed and drove through the gap.

The estate was quiet. Too quiet. The party from last night was long gone, the caterers packed up, the evidence of normalcy swept away.

I parked on the lawn, the tires tearing up the perfect turf. I got out, leaving the door open.

I walked to the front door and kicked it.

"Edith!" I screamed. "I know about Mark! I know about Alice!"

No answer.

I tried the handle. Locked.

I went to the study window. I picked up a landscaping rock and threw it.

The glass shattered, a cascade of diamonds falling onto the hardwood floor inside.

I climbed through.

The house smelled of lemon polish and silence. I walked through the study, my boots crunching on the glass. I went to the desk where Edith had taken the birth certificate from me.

I opened the drawers. Empty.

I went to the safe behind the painting. Open. Empty.

"She's gone," a voice said behind me.

I spun around.

Mark was standing in the doorway. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. His shirt was rumpled, his eyes bloodshot. He was holding a glass of scotch, even though it was barely noon.

"Where is she?" I demanded.

"Paris," Mark said. He took a sip, grimacing. "Or maybe Zurich. She has accounts in both."

"She took the money?"

"She took everything," Mark said. "The Trust is empty, Sarah. I checked this morning. She transferred the liquid assets yesterday. The rest... the property, the stocks... it's all tied up in shell companies."

He laughed, a bitter, jagged sound.

"She played us," he said. "Both of us. She kept us fighting over scraps while she ate the whole meal."

"She didn't just take the money," I said, walking toward him. "She took lives, Mark. She took your mother."

Mark frowned. "My mother is in Paris."

"No," I said. "Your mother is dead. Her name was Alice Miller. She was a nurse."

I pulled the funeral receipt from my pocket and held it out to him.

"She died in September 1988," I said. "Three months after you were born. Edith paid for the cremation."

Mark stared at the paper. He didn't take it. He just looked at the name *Alice Miller*.

"Miller," he whispered. "Like Ben?"

"Ben is your uncle," I said. "Alice was his sister. She worked here. She got pregnant. Edith took you, Mark. She took you to replace the baby she sent to Canada. To replace Leo."

Mark looked up at me. His face was gray.

"Leo," he said. "The one you found in the wall."

"No," I said. "Leo is the one in the basement. The one I broke out last night."

Mark's glass slipped from his hand. It hit the floor and shattered, scotch splashing onto his expensive loafers.

"You broke him out?" he whispered. "Where is he?"

"Safe," I said. "Unlike us."

I looked around the empty house. The furniture was still here. The art was still on the walls. But the soul of the place—the money—was gone.

"Why did you come here?" Mark asked.

"To find proof," I said. "To prove who we are."

"We're nobody," Mark said. "We're the leftovers."

He walked over to the fireplace. There was a painting hanging above it. Edith, holding a baby.

Mark looked at it.

"That's not me," he said. "Is it?"

"No," I said. "That's Leo. Before she locked him away."

Mark reached up and pulled the painting off the wall. He threw it into the fireplace.

"Burn it," he said.

"Mark—"

"Burn it all," he shouted. "This house. The lies. Everything."

He grabbed a lighter from the mantelpiece.

"Mark, stop!"

"Why?" he asked, turning to me. The flame flickered in his hand. "What is there left to save?"

"The truth," I said. "We need to find out where she went. We need to find Clara."

"Clara?"

"She took her," I said. "Ben checked the facility this morning. Clara was discharged yesterday. To the care of her legal guardian. Edith."

Mark stared at the lighter. Then he snapped it shut.

"She took Clara," he repeated. "Why?"

"Because Clara is the only one who can identify Leo," I said. "She's the only one who knows which baby is which. Edith needs her to keep the narrative straight."

I looked at the empty safe.

"She didn't just take the money, Mark. She took the witness."

I walked over to the desk. I pulled out the drawers, one by one, dumping them onto the floor. Paperclips. Pens. Nothing.

Then I saw it.

In the bottom drawer, stuck to the underside of the wood, was a sticky note.

It had a flight number on it. And a time.

*AF 104. 6:00 PM.*

I looked at my watch. It was 1:00 PM.

"She hasn't left yet," I said. "The flight is tonight."

Mark looked at the note. "That's six hours from now."

"We can catch her," I said. "We can stop her."

Mark looked at me. For the first time, I saw something other than fear in his eyes. I saw anger. The same anger I felt.

"Let's go," he said.

We ran out to my car. Mark's Porsche was blocked in by the gate I had smashed.

We drove fast. Too fast. But as we merged onto the highway, my phone buzzed.

It was a text from Ben.

*Sarah. I found something else in the attic. Another box.*

*It has photos. From 1989.*

*Of a baby girl.*

I stared at the screen. 1989. The year Edith bought me from Dr. Thorne.

*There's a note,* Ben texted.

*Subject: Sofia Thorne.*

*Disposition: Defective.*

*Action: Return to Source.*

I froze. *Return to Source.*

Does that mean... return to Dr. Thorne?

Or return to the earth?

I looked at the date on the photos in the attic. They stopped in 1990.

Just like the photos of Leo stopped in the basement.

Just like the photos of Mark stopped in the nursery.

Edith didn't just collect children.

She discarded them.

And if I was *defective*