Chapter 29: The Ask

I threw the Honda into reverse, the tires shrieking as we fishtailed out of the hospital lot. The police cruiser’s lights flashed in my rearview mirror, a blinding strobe of blue and red, but they didn't pursue. Edith must have told them not to. She wanted me cornered, not arrested. Arrests created records.

"We need a new car," Ben said, looking out the back window. "She'll track this one."

"I know."

I drove to a 24-hour car rental near the airport, leaving my Honda in a dark corner of the lot. I used the emergency cash Clara had hidden in the nursery—old bills that smelled like baby powder. We rented a gray sedan, anonymous and forgettable.

Leo sat in the back seat, silent. He was touching the window glass again, fascinated by the world passing by at sixty miles an hour.

"Where is she buried?" I asked Ben.

"St. Jude's," he said. "The old section. It's where the family plot is."

"The Sterling plot?"

"No," Ben said. "The Miller plot. My grandfather bought it in the fifties."

We drove in silence. The cemetery was on the outskirts of town, bordered by a wrought-iron fence that looked like it was holding back the darkness. We parked on the gravel path and walked through the rows of headstones.

It was 3:00 a.m. The only light came from the moon and Ben's flashlight.

"Here," Ben said, stopping in front of a modest granite marker.

*Alice Miller. 1969-1988. Beloved Daughter and Sister.*

There was no mention of a baby. No *Beloved Mother*.

"She died in September," I said, shining my light on the date. "Three months after Mark was born."

"Edith paid for the funeral," Ben said, his voice thick. "She told my parents it was an accident. A car crash."

"There was no car crash," I said. "There was a cleanup."

I looked at the grave next to Alice's. It was fresh dirt, or at least, fresher than the others. The stone was new.

*Michael Miller. 1945-2015.*

"My grandfather," Ben said. "The one who built the furniture."

I knelt down. "Ben, if your grandfather built the hidden compartments... if he helped Edith hide the truth... maybe he didn't take the secret to his grave."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe he left something," I said. "Like Clara did."

Ben looked at the headstone. He reached out and traced the letters of his grandfather's name.

"He gave me a toolbox when he died," Ben said. "An old wooden one. He said it was for 'fixing the family mistakes'."

"Do you still have it?"

"It's in my truck."

We ran back to the car. Ben pulled a heavy, battered toolbox from the bed of his truck. He set it on the hood of the rental car and opened it.

It was full of tools—hammers, chisels, saws.

"Check the bottom," I said. "Just like Edith's desk."

Ben emptied the tools onto the hood. He ran his hand along the bottom of the box.

"It's solid," he said. "No latch."

"Maybe it's not a latch," I said. "Maybe it's a puzzle."

I looked at the lid. There was an inlay pattern in the wood. A star.

"Clara's star," I whispered.

I pressed on the center of the star.

Nothing happened.

"Try the corners," Leo said. His voice was quiet, tentative.

I looked at him. "The corners?"

"The nursery," he said. "The mobile. It had four stars. One in each corner."

I pressed the four corners of the inlay simultaneously.

*Click.*

The false bottom sprang up.

Inside was a single, leather-bound notebook.

Ben picked it up. His hands were shaking.

He opened it. It wasn't a diary. It was a ledger.

*Job: Sterling Estate. Custom Nursery. May 1988.*
*Payment: $50,000.*

*Job: Sterling Hoarding House. False Wall. June 1988.*
*Payment: $50,000.*

*Job: Disposal. September 1988.*
*Payment: $100,000.*

"Disposal," Ben whispered. "He disposed of Alice?"

"Keep reading," I said.

He turned the page.

*Job: Medical Records Alteration. October 1988.*
*Payment: $25,000.*

*Notes: Dr. Thorne provided new blood samples. Swapped vials in lab. Patient Leo Sterling reclassified as O-Negative. Patient Sarah Sterling reclassified as A-Positive.*

I grabbed the book.

"He swapped the blood," I said. "It wasn't a genetic anomaly. It wasn't a mistake. It was deliberate. Edith paid Thorne to switch the blood samples in the lab so that if anyone ever tested us, the results wouldn't match our parents."

"Why?" Ben asked.

"To break the chain," I said. "To make sure that if Clara ever got lucid... if she ever claimed us... the science would prove her wrong. Edith didn't just steal us. She biologically disowned us."

I looked at Leo. "You're O-Negative because Thorne made you O-Negative on paper. But your real blood... Clara's blood... is still inside you."

"And mine," I said. "I'm A-Positive on paper. But if I get tested now... really tested..."

"You'll be a match for Clara," Ben said. "And for Leo."

I closed the book. This was it. The final piece. The proof that Edith had engineered not just our lives, but our very biology.

"We have to go," I said. "We have to get this to a judge."

"Wait," Leo said. He was looking past us, toward the cemetery gate.

A pair of headlights cut through the darkness.

"Is it the police?" Ben asked.

"No," I said, recognizing the engine noise. It was a purr, not a roar.

It was the Porsche.

Mark's Porsche.

He pulled up next to us, the window rolling down. He looked frantic.

"Get in," he shouted. "She knows you're here."

"How?" I demanded.

"She put a tracker on Ben's truck," Mark said. "She's five minutes behind me. And she's not coming to talk."

I looked at Ben's truck. Then at the rental car.

"She thinks we're in the truck," I realized.

"Get in!" Mark yelled. "We have to get to the airfield."

"The airfield?"

"She's not flying commercial," Mark said. "She chartered a private jet. It leaves in an hour. If she gets on that plane, she's gone. And she's taking the money with her."

I looked at Leo. At Ben. At the ledger in my hand.

"Does she still have Clara?" I asked.

Mark nodded. "She's in the car with her."

I opened the door to the Porsche. "Let's go."

We piled in. Mark spun the car around, gravel spraying against the headstones.

"Why are you helping us?" I asked, gripping the dashboard. "You wanted the money."

Mark looked at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes were hard.

"I found out why she named me Mark," he said.

"Why?"

"Because it means *target*," he whispered.

He gunned the engine.

"She didn't adopt me, Sarah. She bought me as an insurance policy. And policies expire."

He hit the gas.

"She cashed me out this morning," he said. "She tried to freeze my accounts. She tried to erase me too."

He looked at the road ahead, where the lights of the private airfield glowed in the distance.

"But she forgot one thing," Mark said.

"What?"

"I know where the bodies are buried," he said. "Because she made me dig the holes."