PART 4 — THE CHILD HE CHOSE TO STEAL
“Celia, June isn’t who you think she is.”
For three seconds, I could hear nothing except my own heartbeat.
Then I looked down the hallway toward the bedroom where my seven-year-old daughter was sitting with Mrs. Weaver.
June.
My little girl who hated peas, slept with one sock on and one sock off, and still crawled into my bed whenever thunder shook the windows.
“What did you do?” I whispered.
Vaughn laughed softly through the phone.
“You always assume everything is about what I did.”
“You forged my signature. You emptied the children’s account. You took out a loan in my name. You were preparing to take June out of the country.
So yes, Vaughn. Right now I assume everything is about what you did.”
Denise stood beside me, already recording the call.
Vaughn became silent.
I could picture him thinking.
Calculating.
Deciding which lie might still work.
Then he said, “Ask your mother.”
My body went still.
“My mother is dead.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“Ask yourself why she never liked me.”
“My mother didn’t like you because she had good judgment.”
His laugh disappeared.
“There’s a reason she left you that envelope.”
“What envelope?”
Silence.
My chest tightened.
“What envelope, Vaughn?”
“You really don’t know?”
Denise mouthed, Keep him talking.
“No.”
“Well.”
I heard movement on his end.
A car door.
An engine.
He was somewhere outside.
“She hid more from you than I ever did.”
“You’re trying to distract me.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Then ask yourself why June’s DNA report was inside the box.”
I looked at the tablet.
Brielle was still on the video call from Lakecrest.
One of the officers stood nearby holding the laboratory report.
“Whose DNA was tested?” I demanded.
Vaughn hesitated.
“Mine.”
“And June’s?”
“Yes.”
“And the third person?”
His voice changed.
“I’m not telling you.”
“Because you don’t know?”
“I know exactly who it is.”
“Then say the name.”
“No.”
For the first time, I heard fear beneath his arrogance.
That told me something.
The truth mattered.
“Vaughn.”
“I said ask your mother.”
“She died four years ago.”
“Then maybe you should have gone through her things instead of leaving everything in storage.”
My stomach dropped.
After my mother died, I had been drowning.
Funeral expenses.
Work.
Two children.
Vaughn had offered to move her remaining boxes into a storage unit.
I had barely opened them.
“You went through her storage?”
Another silence.
“You did.”
Vaughn said nothing.
“You found something.”
Still nothing.
Denise leaned toward me and whispered, “Storage unit location?”
I covered the phone.
“Belmont Self Storage.”
She wrote it down.
Then Vaughn spoke.
“Celia, I’m going to give you one chance.”
I almost laughed.
“You’re giving me a chance?”
“Stop the fraud report.”
“No.”
“Call the bank and say you misunderstood.”
“No.”
“Tell the police Brielle stole the paperwork.”
“No.”
His breathing changed.
“And you sign the divorce agreement tomorrow.”
I looked at Denise.
She slowly shook her head.
Do not agree.
“Or what?”
Vaughn lowered his voice.
“Or everything about June comes out.”
A rage I had never known rose through me.
“You listen to me carefully. Whatever is on that report does not change who June is. She is my daughter. You do not get to use her as a threat.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“You might feel differently once you know.”
“I won’t.”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “You always were stubborn.”
“And you always mistook patience for weakness.”
I ended the call.
My hands were shaking.
Denise immediately turned to Brielle on the tablet.
“Can the officer show us the report?”
One of the officers stepped closer.
“I can’t officially interpret private medical documents for you over a video call.”
“I understand,” Denise said. “But is Celia’s name on the report?”
He looked down.
“No.”
“Is Vaughn listed as alleged father?”
“Yes.”
I felt my throat close.
“And June?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us the result?”
The officer hesitated.
Then Brielle whispered, “I already saw it.”
Every eye turned toward the tablet.
I gripped the edge of the table.
“Tell me.”
Brielle looked terrified.
“Celia, the report says Vaughn has zero percent probability of paternity.”
The words reached me.
But they did not make sense.
“Zero?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“No. That’s impossible.”
Denise watched me carefully.
“Celia?”
“I have never been with another man.”
Nobody spoke.
“I’m serious.”
“I believe you,” Denise said.
“Vaughn is June’s father.”
Brielle swallowed.
“The report says he isn’t.”
“Then the report is wrong.”
Denise leaned closer to the screen.
“What about the third person?”
Brielle looked down at the document.
“It’s a woman.”
My heart started hammering again.
“What woman?”
Brielle read the name.
“Marilyn Mercer.”
Vaughn’s mother.
I stared at the screen.
“Why would his mother’s DNA be tested?”
Brielle’s face became pale.
“Because the report says Marilyn has a ninety-nine-point-eight percent probability of being biologically related to June.”
I could barely breathe.
“How?”
Denise’s eyes narrowed.
“What relationship?”
Brielle looked at the page again.
“Grandparent.”
I grabbed the chair.
“That makes no sense.”
If Marilyn was June’s biological grandmother but Vaughn was not June’s father, then—
I stopped.
Another possibility entered my mind.
One I rejected before it fully formed.
“No.”
Denise said nothing.
I looked at her.
“No.”
“Celia.”
“No.”
“There may be another biological son.”
“Marilyn only has Vaughn.”
“That you know of.”
I felt suddenly cold.
Then I remembered a photograph.
An old one.
Years ago.
Marilyn standing beside two teenage boys.
Vaughn had told me the second boy was a cousin.
I never asked his name.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Vaughn.
GO TO YOUR MOTHER’S STORAGE UNIT.
Beneath it was another message.
BOX 41.
Denise saw it.
“He wants you to find something.”
“Or he wants me away from the children.”
“Which is why you’re not going anywhere tonight.”
I looked toward June’s bedroom.
“You’re right.”
Mrs. Weaver appeared in the hallway.
“Children are asleep.”
“Both?”
“Emmett is pretending.”
Of course he was.
My son had inherited my inability to sleep when something was wrong.
Mrs. Weaver touched my arm.
“He asked me whether his father is coming back.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That his mother is handling things.”
My eyes burned.
“Thank you.”
“No.”
She squeezed my hand.
“Thank yourself. You’re the one finally handling that man.”
The police at Lakecrest collected the documents, photographed the apartment, and asked Brielle to come to the station for a formal statement.
Vaughn and Marilyn were gone.
But they had left behind more than they realized.
The laptop.
The forged travel authorization.
The divorce paperwork.
The custody waiver.
The altered identification.
And Vaughn’s notebook.
By midnight, Denise had called someone she knew in the state’s attorney’s office.
She would not promise me arrests.
She would not promise the money would come back.
She would not promise custody would be simple.
But she did say one thing.
“Celia, Vaughn is no longer controlling the evidence.”
For the first time all night, I understood how important that was.
He had controlled every story.
He controlled what Brielle believed.
What his mother believed.
What the bank believed.
What the future court was supposed to believe.
But now other people had his paperwork.
People he could not order around.
People he could not intimidate with a laugh.
At 1:13 in the morning, Denise left after insisting Mrs. Weaver remain with us.
I checked every lock twice.
Then I stood beside June’s bed.
She was sleeping curled beneath a pink blanket.
One hand was tucked beneath her cheek.
I sat beside her.
If Vaughn was not her biological father, it changed nothing for me.
But I could not understand it.
I remembered June’s birth.
Vaughn beside the hospital bed.
Marilyn bringing flowers.
My mother standing awkwardly near the window.
My mother.
Suddenly I remembered something I had forgotten for seven years.
The first time my mother held June, she cried.
Not happy tears.
She held my baby and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
I had thought she meant she was sorry we had argued during my pregnancy.
Now those words returned differently.
I’m sorry.
I stood.
My mother knew something.
At 6:40 the next morning, Denise called.
“Don’t go to work.”
“I already called in.”
“Good.”
“What happened?”
“North City contacted me.”
My stomach tightened.
“The loan?”
“They froze the remaining fifty thousand.”
I closed my eyes in relief.
“And the twenty-five?”
“Transferred to an LLC.”
“Whose?”
“Lakeview Logistics Consulting.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Neither had I. Guess who registered it.”
“Vaughn?”
“No.”
My stomach sank.
“Marilyn.”
Of course.
The woman who complained when I bought name-brand cereal had helped move twenty-five thousand dollars stolen under my identity.
“There’s more.”
“There’s always more.”
“The children’s savings withdrawals went into a cashier’s check.”
“For Lakecrest?”
“Partially.”
“Where did the rest go?”
“A law firm.”
I frowned.
“What law firm?”
“Pritchard and Sloan.”
“What kind of law firm?”
“Immigration and international family law.”
I stopped walking.
“International?”
“Yes.”
“Cancún.”
“That was my thought too.”
“Why would Vaughn need an international family lawyer?”
“We don’t know yet.”
My phone buzzed while she spoke.
A text.
Unknown number.
I opened it.
You don’t know me, but I think your husband has been looking for me.
Below the message was a name.
GABRIEL MERCER.
My entire body froze.
Mercer.
“Denise.”
“What?”
“I just got a text.”
I read it aloud.
She became silent.
“Do not respond until I get there.”
“Gabriel Mercer.”
“I heard you.”
“Do you know who that is?”
“No.”
But I did.
Or at least I knew the face.
I opened Facebook.
Typed the name.
Gabriel Mercer.
A profile appeared.
Forty-one years old.
Lives in Milwaukee.
Owns a small auto restoration shop.
The profile picture loaded.
I nearly dropped my phone.
It was the second teenage boy from Marilyn’s old photograph.
The “cousin.”
Except he was not Vaughn’s cousin.
The resemblance was too strong.
Same jaw.
Same eyes.
Same crooked smile.
I clicked through older photographs.
Then stopped.
Gabriel standing beside an elderly man at a fishing dock.
Marilyn’s late husband.
Vaughn’s father.
Caption:
Three generations of stubborn Mercer men.
My knees weakened.
“Mrs. Weaver.”
She hurried from the kitchen.
“What?”
“Come here.”
I showed her the photograph.
“That looks like Vaughn.”
“It isn’t.”
“Who is it?”
“I think Vaughn has a brother.”
Gabriel sent another message.
I know about June.
My breath caught.
Then:
But I have never met her.
My fingers moved before Denise could arrive.
How do you know my daughter?
His answer came less than a minute later.
Because your mother contacted me before she died.
I sat down.
Why?
Three dots appeared.
Because she believed something happened at the hospital when June was born.
The room went silent around me.
I typed:
What happened?
Gabriel responded:
Not by text.
Then:
Meet me somewhere public.
I remembered Denise’s warning.
I called her.
She answered immediately.
“I told you not to respond.”
“He says my mother contacted him.”
Another silence.
“I’m coming now.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Denise walked into my apartment carrying coffee and a legal pad.
She read the entire exchange.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“We meet him.”
“Today?”
“Yes. Public location. I come with you. Mrs. Weaver stays with the children.”
I looked at June.
“What if Vaughn comes here?”
“He won’t get inside. And I’m requesting an emergency order of protection this morning.”
At 9:30, Denise and I sat inside a crowded diner near the courthouse.
Gabriel arrived twelve minutes late.
The moment he walked through the door, I knew.
He was Vaughn’s brother.
Not cousin.
Not distant relative.
Brother.
Gabriel approached cautiously.
“Celia?”
“Yes.”
He looked at Denise.
“My attorney.”
He nodded.
“Smart.”
He sat across from us.
For several seconds, none of us spoke.
Then I asked the only question that mattered.
“What do you know about my daughter?”
Gabriel exhaled.
“Before I answer, you need to understand something about my family.”
“Your brother?”
He looked surprised.
“You figured that out.”
“Marilyn told me you were Vaughn’s cousin.”
His mouth tightened.
“That sounds like her.”
“Why hide you?”
“Because I left.”
“That’s not a reason to pretend you don’t exist.”
“With Marilyn, it is.”
Gabriel rubbed his hands together.
“I’m older than Vaughn by three years. Our father and Marilyn had me when they were teenagers. She blamed me for ruining her life.”
I said nothing.
“By sixteen, I was basically living with our grandmother. By twenty, I moved to Wisconsin. Marilyn decided it was easier to tell people I was some distant relative than explain why her oldest son wouldn’t speak to her.”
“And Vaughn?”
“We haven’t spoken in almost eleven years.”
“Until now?”
Gabriel looked at me.
“He called me three months ago.”
My heart tightened.
“What did he want?”
“He asked whether I had ever donated sperm.”
I blinked.
Denise leaned forward.
“What?”
Gabriel looked uncomfortable.
“When I was twenty-six, I needed money. A friend told me about a fertility clinic. I donated several times.”
My skin prickled.
“Where?”
“Chicago.”
The diner seemed to become quieter around me.
“What clinic?”
He said the name.
Northwood Fertility Center.
My hand went numb around the coffee cup.
I knew that clinic.
Because seven years ago, when Vaughn and I struggled to conceive after Emmett, we went there.
My mouth opened.
“No.”
Gabriel saw my face.
“You recognize it.”
I could barely whisper.
“Yes.”
Denise looked between us.
“Celia?”
“Vaughn and I had fertility treatments.”
Gabriel closed his eyes.
“Oh, God.”
I started remembering.
The tests.
The injections.
The appointments.
A doctor telling us Vaughn’s sperm count was low but not impossible.
A procedure.
Then another.
Then pregnancy.
June.
“They said they used Vaughn’s sample.”
Gabriel leaned back.
“I never knew.”
“Are you saying the clinic used yours?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why would my mother contact you?”
Gabriel pulled an envelope from his jacket.
“This.”
My mother’s handwriting was across the front.
I recognized it immediately.
For Gabriel.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a photocopy of a medical billing statement from Northwood Fertility Center dated eight years earlier.
A handwritten note appeared beside one charge.
Donor sample substitution.
I stared at it.
“What does that mean?”
Gabriel shook his head.
“I hoped you knew.”
Denise took the page.
“Where did your mother get this?”
“I don’t know. She mailed it to me about six months before she died.”
“What else did she say?”
Gabriel reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded letter.
“She said she had discovered something she should have told you years earlier.”
He handed it to me.
My mother’s handwriting covered three pages.
Dear Gabriel,
You do not know me, but I believe my granddaughter may have been conceived using a genetic sample connected to you. I am ashamed that I waited this long. I was told at the time that Celia knew. I now believe she did not.
My eyes blurred.
I kept reading.
Vaughn and Marilyn told me the clinic had made a legal correction because Vaughn’s original sample was unusable. Marilyn insisted Celia had agreed to an anonymous family donor. Celia never mentioned it, and I became suspicious.
My stomach twisted.
Marilyn knew.
Vaughn knew.
My mother had suspected.
And I knew nothing.
The final paragraph made my heart stop.
I recently found a copy of a form bearing Celia’s signature consenting to the substitution. I am certain the signature is not hers.
The page shook in my hand.
Forgery.
Again.
Eight years earlier.
Before the children’s savings.
Before Lakecrest.
Before Brielle.
Before the seventy-five-thousand-dollar loan.
Vaughn had been forging my name for almost a decade.
Denise whispered, “Celia.”
But I kept reading.
If I am right, then Vaughn and Marilyn did not merely hide the truth. They made a medical decision for Celia without her knowledge.
I lowered the letter.
Gabriel looked sick.
“I didn’t know.”
I believed him.
For the first time that morning, I believed someone immediately.
“When did Vaughn contact you?”
“Three months ago.”
“And why?”
“He asked whether I would take a DNA test.”
“You did?”
“Not voluntarily.”
“What does that mean?”
“He mailed me a genealogy kit for Christmas two years ago. I never used it. Then three months ago, he suddenly asked me for a cheek swab because he said our father’s side had a genetic condition.”
“So you sent one?”
“Yes.”
“That must be the third DNA profile.”
Gabriel nodded slowly.
“Probably.”
“Then June…”
My voice failed.
Gabriel finished.
“Could be my biological daughter.”
I looked away.
The word daughter felt like a knife.
“She’s my daughter.”
“I know.”
“No.”
I turned back to him.
“You need to understand that.”
“I do.”
“You donated genetic material. You didn’t raise her. You didn’t know she existed.”
“I agree.”
“I’m not losing my child to another Mercer man.”
Gabriel’s eyes widened.
“I don’t want custody.”
“Good.”
“I came because Vaughn called me last night.”
I froze.
“What did he say?”
Gabriel looked toward Denise.
“He asked if I had a passport.”
“Why?”
“He wanted me to meet him in Mexico.”
My blood turned cold.
“When?”
“Two days from now.”
The same day as Vaughn’s tickets.
“Why?”
“He said there was going to be a family emergency involving a child.”
Denise leaned forward.
“Did he say June’s name?”
“No.”
“Did he ask you to bring anything?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“My birth certificate.”
I felt sick.
Denise’s face hardened.
Birth certificate.
Passport.
DNA proof.
International family lawyer.
Forged travel consent.
None of it was random.
“What was Vaughn planning?” I whispered.
Gabriel shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Denise was already making calls.
The answer came that afternoon.
Not from Vaughn.
Not from Marilyn.
From the attorney whose name appeared on the payment from the children’s account.
Pritchard and Sloan had received a retainer.
Not for divorce.
Not for immigration.
For something called an international parentage petition.
Denise read the phrase twice.
“What does that mean?”
“It appears Vaughn was preparing to challenge or restructure June’s legal parentage after leaving the country.”
My chest constricted.
“Could he do that?”
“Not easily. Maybe not at all. But with forged documents, a DNA report, and Gabriel physically present…”
She stopped.
“What?”
“He may have been trying to create enough confusion to prevent you from getting June back quickly.”
My vision blurred.
That was the plan.
Not to win forever.
Just to get her outside the country.
Produce documents.
Claim I consented.
Introduce another biological parent.
Create legal chaos.
Delay.
Hide.
Control.
I thought about Vaughn telling me I would ruin the family if I did something stupid.
All while he was preparing to remove my daughter from the country.
That afternoon, the judge signed an emergency order preventing either child from being removed from Illinois without court approval.
Copies went to local law enforcement.
Denise also began the process of alerting federal authorities about June’s passport.
At 4:16 p.m., the credit union called.
The investigator’s voice was different this time.
Serious.
Careful.
“We reviewed older records associated with your identity.”
My stomach dropped.
“How old?”
“Eight years.”
Denise slowly looked at me.
“What did you find?”
“A line of credit was opened jointly under your name and Vaughn Mercer’s.”
“I never opened one.”
“The original amount was twenty thousand dollars.”
“What happened to it?”
“It was paid off.”
I almost laughed from relief.
Then he continued.
“Using proceeds from a second account.”
Of course.
“What second account?”
“A custodial account.”
I stared at him through the phone as if he were standing in front of me.
“For whom?”
There was hesitation.
“June Mercer.”
My whole body went cold.
“June was a baby.”
“Yes.”
“How can a baby have a custodial account with enough money to pay twenty thousand dollars?”
“That is what we’re investigating.”
“Where did the money come from?”
“We traced the initial deposit to a trust distribution.”
I could not understand.
“What trust?”
“The Eleanor Brooks Family Trust.”
My mother’s name was Eleanor Brooks.
I stopped breathing.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“She never told me about a trust.”
“There was a distribution of thirty thousand dollars shortly after June’s birth.”
I gripped the phone.
“Who was listed as custodian?”
Another pause.
Then Daniel said the name.
“Marilyn Mercer.”
I felt something break inside me.
My mother had somehow placed money aside for June.
And Vaughn’s mother had controlled it.
“How?”
“We’re still determining that.”
“But Marilyn wasn’t June’s legal guardian.”
“I understand.”
“Then somebody forged paperwork.”
Denise looked at me.
We both already knew the answer.
After the call, I sat at the kitchen table.
The same table where Vaughn had placed eighty dollars three weeks earlier.
Eighty dollars.
Work miracles with rice.
Meanwhile, he had been stealing from accounts I didn’t even know existed.
Stealing from my mother.
Stealing from my daughter.
Stealing from me.
My phone rang.
This time the caller ID displayed:
MARILYN MERCER.
Denise was beside me.
“Answer.”
I put it on speaker.
“Hello?”
Marilyn did not greet me.
“You have no idea what you’ve done.”
I laughed.
The sound surprised even me.
“Interesting choice of words.”
“You involved police.”
“You pretended to be me inside a bank.”
“That is not what happened.”
“There’s surveillance footage.”
Silence.
“You forged my travel consent.”
“Vaughn handled those papers.”
“You stole from June’s trust.”
Another silence.
That one lasted longer.
“You knew,” I whispered.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My mother created a trust.”
Marilyn inhaled sharply.
There.
The truth had touched her.
“You knew.”
“Celia—”
“You knew June was biologically Gabriel’s.”
“That situation was complicated.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“You knew from the beginning.”
“Vaughn wanted a family.”
“So you stole my right to decide?”
“You were desperate for another child.”
“That did not give you permission.”
“The clinic said—”
“The clinic said what?”
Marilyn stopped.
Denise immediately wrote something down.
“Marilyn.”
Nothing.
“What did the clinic say?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It matters to me.”
“You got a beautiful daughter.”
The casual cruelty of that sentence nearly made me scream.
As if violating my consent should be forgiven because I loved the child who resulted from it.
“I love June more than anything.”
“Then stop asking questions that could destroy her life.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand what will happen if this becomes public.”
“Public for whom?”
Silence.
Then I understood.
This was not only about me.
“What are you protecting?”
Marilyn said nothing.
“Vaughn?”
Nothing.
“The clinic?”
Nothing.
“You?”
Her breathing changed.
“Marilyn, what did you do?”
She whispered, “I tried to fix a problem.”
“What problem?”
“Vaughn couldn’t have more children.”
“That was his problem to discuss with me.”
“He was ashamed.”
“So you and Vaughn secretly used Gabriel’s genetic material?”
“I knew Gabriel had donated at that clinic years earlier.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“You arranged it.”
“I made a call.”
Denise’s eyes widened.
Marilyn continued.
“I knew someone there.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It absolutely matters.”
“Celia, stop this.”
“No.”
“You have your daughter.”
“And you spent eight years using the truth as a weapon you could pull out whenever you needed it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You let Vaughn prepare to steal her from me.”
“I never intended for him to take June permanently.”
My breath stopped.
Denise stared at the phone.
“You knew about Mexico.”
Marilyn said nothing.
“You knew.”
“He was only going to be gone temporarily.”
“With my child.”
“He needed leverage.”
The room went silent.
Leverage.
My seven-year-old daughter was leverage.
“What did he want me to do?”
“You already know.”
“Sign the divorce.”
“Yes.”
“Give him custody?”
“Only on paper at first.”
My vision narrowed.
“And let him keep the money?”
Marilyn did not answer.
Then I asked the question that mattered.
“Why was June the leverage instead of Emmett?”
Marilyn went silent.
“Why June?”
Nothing.
“Because you knew I’d fight harder?”
Still nothing.
“Or because there’s something about Emmett too?”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Denise slowly turned toward me.
“What did you just say?”
I didn’t answer.
My mind had already gone backward ten years.
Emmett’s birth.
No fertility clinic.
No donor.
A normal pregnancy.
At least I thought so.
But Vaughn had asked Emmett about the savings.
He had created a credit file under his name.
He had folders for both children.
Why?
My tablet buzzed.
Brielle.
Police found another folder on Vaughn’s laptop.
My hands shook.
What folder?
Her reply came immediately.
EMMETT — ORIGINAL.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Denise grabbed the tablet.
“What does ‘original’ mean?”
Brielle sent a photograph.
It showed a scanned birth certificate.
Emmett’s.
But something was wrong.
The version in my cabinet had always listed Vaughn Mercer as his father.
This scanned version did not.
The father field was blank.
Below it was a second birth certificate.
Issued six weeks later.
Father:
VAUGHN MERCER.
Denise whispered, “Why were there two certificates?”
I could not answer.
Then another file appeared.
An affidavit.
Acknowledgment of Paternity.
Signature:
CELIA BROOKS MERCER.
Except once again, the signature was not mine.
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
Ten years ago.
Three years before June was born.
Vaughn had forged my signature even then.
Denise whispered, “Celia, who is Emmett’s biological father?”
“Vaughn.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
But the word came slower than before.
Because suddenly I remembered the night Emmett was born.
Vaughn had not been in the delivery room.
He arrived almost four hours later.
He said his truck had broken down.
My mother had been there.
She had handled paperwork because I was exhausted.
Marilyn arrived the next morning.
And two days later, Vaughn suddenly insisted he needed to “correct something” on Emmett’s birth certificate.
At the time, I never asked what.
My tablet buzzed again.
Brielle:
There’s a DNA file for Emmett too.
I stopped breathing.
Denise stared at the screen.
“Open it.”
The photograph loaded.
VAUGHN MERCER.
EMMETT MERCER.
Probability of paternity:
0.00%.
The room disappeared.
“No.”
I whispered it once.
Then louder.
“No.”
“That can’t be right.”
Denise put her hand on mine.
“I never cheated on him.”
“I know.”
“Both children?”
My voice broke.
“How could neither child be biologically his?”
Then I saw the date on Emmett’s DNA test.
It had been performed only six weeks ago.
And underneath was another comparison.
Not Gabriel.
A different man.
Probability of biological paternity:
99.99%.
The name was partially covered by another page.
Brielle shifted the document.
I leaned toward the screen.
The full name appeared.
And every thought vanished from my head.
Because I knew that name.
I had known it my entire childhood.
I had seen it written on Christmas cards.
On old birthday photographs.
On legal documents after my mother died.
THOMAS BROOKS.
My mother’s younger brother.
My uncle.
The man who supposedly died in a motorcycle accident eleven years ago.
Except suddenly Denise was staring at me in horror.
“Celia.”
“What?”
She pointed to the birth date printed beside Thomas Brooks’s name.
I looked.
The date was wrong.
My uncle had been born in 1969.
This Thomas Brooks had been born in 1988.
Only two years before me.
Then Brielle sent one last message.
Police found a photograph inside the folder.
The image loaded.
A man stood outside Northwood Fertility Center holding a newborn in his arms.
My newborn.
Emmett.
I knew the hospital blanket.
I knew the tiny blue hat.
I knew my son’s face.
But the man holding him was not Vaughn.
Not my uncle.
Not anyone I recognized.
Written across the back of the photograph were six words:
THOMAS BROOKS — CELIA MUST NEVER KNOW.
And below that, in Marilyn’s handwriting:
He wants his son back…………..
TO BE CONTINUED IN LAST PART…
