Chapter 49: The Email

We didn't go back to the nursing home immediately. We couldn't. Ben’s truck was dead, the police were swarming the area around the lake, and we were three fugitives in a stolen ambulance.

Mark was in bad shape. His breathing was shallow, a wet rasp that suggested a punctured lung. He sat slumped in the back of the rig, holding a compress to his side.

"We need a car," I said. "And we need a place to stash the ambulance."

We drove to an industrial park on the edge of town, a graveyard of rusted machinery and abandoned warehouses. Ben knew a guy—there was always a guy—who ran a chop shop out of a corrugated steel shed.

The guy, a wiry man named Sal with grease under his fingernails, didn't ask questions. He just took the keys to the ambulance and handed us the keys to a battered Ford sedan.

"Don't bring it back," Sal said.

We transferred Mark into the Ford. He groaned as we moved him.

"We have to get you to a doctor," I said.

"No," Mark wheezed. "No hospitals. Edith has eyes everywhere. Just... just get me to the nursing home. I need to talk to Elaine."

"You need surgery," Ben said.

"I need the truth," Mark said. "About my mother. About the sister."

We drove to the nursing home. It was 4:00 a.m. The building was dark, save for the security lights in the parking lot.

"Shift change is at six," Ben said. "The night staff will be skeleton crew. One nurse per floor, maybe two aids."

"We can't just walk in," I said. "Not this time."

I looked at the building. It was a sprawling, single-story structure. The windows were ground level.

"We go through the window," I said. "Elaine's room is 104. First floor, east wing."

We parked in the shadows of a dumpster. Ben helped Mark hobble to the window. I tried the latch. Locked.

Ben pulled out a pocket knife. He slid the blade between the sash and the frame, wiggling it until the latch clicked.

He pushed the window up.

We climbed in. The room smelled of lavender and old age. Elaine Harper was asleep in the bed, her white hair fanned out on the pillow. She looked peaceful, innocent.

But she knew. She knew about the babies.

"Elaine," I whispered, touching her shoulder.

She stirred. Her eyes opened, cloudy with sleep and confusion.

"Who?" she murmured.

"It's Sarah," I said. "We came to visit you before. About the Sterling baby."

"The Screamer," she said, her voice stronger. "Poor thing. Never stopped crying."

"Elaine," Mark said, leaning over the bed. "My name is Mark. I'm Alice Miller's son."

Elaine's eyes widened. She stared at him, her gaze traveling over his face, his jawline.

"Alice," she whispered. "Oh, Alice. She was so scared."

"Elaine," Mark said. "You wrote in the logbook. You said you saw the babies. Plural."

Elaine nodded. "Two girls. Tiny things. One was so quiet. The other... she had lungs."

"Two girls," I said. "Sofia and Lucia."

"Yes," Elaine said. "Dr. Thorne took them. He put them in the incubator. He said they were premature."

"But what about the other baby?" Mark asked. "The boy? My... my brother?"

Elaine frowned. "The boy?"

"Clara's baby," I said. "The one born in June."

"No," Elaine said. "Clara didn't have a baby in June. She lost the baby in March."

"We know she didn't lose it," I said. "We know Thorne stopped the procedure. We know the baby survived."

"He survived," Elaine said. "But he wasn't born in June. He was born in August."

I froze.

"August?" I asked. "But the birth certificate says June."

"The paperwork was wrong," Elaine said. "Dr. Thorne changed the dates. To match the other one."

"What other one?"

"The other boy," Elaine said. "The one Edith brought in."

My head was spinning. "Edith brought in a boy?"

"Yes," Elaine said. "A newborn. A few days old. She said he was a foundling. She wanted to adopt him."

"When was this?" I asked.

"June," Elaine said. "June 1988."

I looked at Mark. Then at Ben.

If Leo was born in August... and the birth certificate said June...

Then the baby Edith brought in... the "foundling"...

"Who was the foundling?" I asked.

Elaine looked at Mark.

"You," she whispered.

Mark stumbled back, hitting the wall.

"Me?" he choked out. "But... Alice. The diary. She was pregnant."

"Alice was pregnant," Elaine said. "But she didn't have the baby in June. She had him in September. The day she died."

Mark slid down the wall.

"Then who am I?" he asked. "If I'm not Alice's son... and I'm not Edith's son..."

Elaine reached for her bedside table. Her hand shook as she opened the drawer.

She pulled out a small, velvet pouch.

"I kept this," she said. "I shouldn't have. But I knew... I knew someone would come looking."

She handed the pouch to me.

I opened it.

Inside was a hospital bracelet. Tiny. Plastic.

*Baby Boy Doe.*
*Date of Birth: June 20, 1988.*
*Mother: Deceased.*

And underneath the mother's status, a name written in ballpoint pen.

*Father: Archibald Sterling.*

I stared at the name.

Archibald Sterling died in 1987. A year before this baby was born.

Unless he didn't.

Unless the death certificate was fake, too.

Unless Archibald Sterling was alive in 1988.

And he fathered a child.

With who?

I looked at the date again. June 20th.

The same day Mark was "born."

"Edith brought him in," Elaine said. "She said he was her father's mistake. She said she had to fix it."

"So she gave him to Alice?" I asked.

"No," Elaine said. "She gave him to the system. She put him in foster care."

"Then who is Mark?" I asked, pointing to the man on the floor.

Elaine looked at Mark. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Mark isn't the foundling," she said. "Mark is Alice's son. Born in September. Taken by Edith after the crash."

"Then who is the foundling?" I asked. "Who is Archibald's son?"

Elaine closed her eyes.

"He's the one in the basement," she whispered. "The one Edith calls Leo."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

The man in the basement. My "brother." The man I had rescued. The man who was currently with Clara in the safe house.

He wasn't Clara's son. He wasn't Thorne's son.

He was Archibald's son.

Edith's brother.

And Clara's brother.

That's why Edith kept him. That's why she hid him. Not because he was sick. Not because he was shameful.

But because he was the rightful heir.

The son of Archibald Sterling.

And if he was Archibald's son... then he owned everything.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

An email notification.

*Subject: Your DNA Relatives Report is Ready.*

I stared at the screen. The report from the sample I had sent weeks ago. The one I had forgotten about in the chaos.

I opened it.

The page loaded slowly on the poor signal.

*Predicted Relationship: Half-Sister.*

*Name: Lucia Rodriguez.*

*Location: Montreal, Canada.*

My sister. The one who was supposed to be dead.

She was alive.

And she was looking for me.