For several seconds, I couldn’t respond.
“What did you just say?”
Jessica’s voice cracked.
“I said my father wasn’t my biological father.”
“Richard Carter wasn’t your father?”
“No.”
“Then who was?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jessica, stop.”
“I wish I could.”
“Tell me everything.”
She was silent.
Then she said:
“Come home.”
“No.”
“Ethan—”
“You’ve lied to me for years.”
“I didn’t know everything.”
“You knew about Rebecca.”
“Yes.”
“You paid her.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about my father’s investigation.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew about your father’s records.”
“Yes.”
My voice broke.
“How long?”
“Eight months.”
“Eight months?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“My father.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you still afraid?”
She whispered:
“Because people connected to him are still alive.”
I looked at Maya.
“Who?”
Jessica refused to answer.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Then we’re done.”
“Ethan, please.”
I hung up.
Maya watched me.
“There’s something she isn’t telling you.”
“I know.”
We returned to the hospital.
My father was still unconscious.
I sat beside his bed for hours.
Machines beeped quietly.
His face looked smaller than I remembered.
I took his hand.
“Dad,” I whispered, “you should have told me.”
His fingers didn’t move.
“I would have believed you.”
Nothing.
“I still do.”
A nurse entered.
“Mr. Hayes?”
I looked up.
She handed me a small envelope.
“This was found in your father’s belongings.”
Another envelope.
My name again.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed three newborn bassinets.
Not two.
Three.
The date was the night I was born.
On the back my father had written:
THE THIRD CHILD WAS NEVER REGISTERED.
I stared at the photograph.
Maya took it carefully.
“Where did he get this?”
I shook my head.
There was another note.
Ask why Jessica was adopted.
I looked at Maya.
“Jessica was adopted?”
“I don’t know.”
I suddenly remembered something Jessica once told me.
Her mother had died when she was young.
Her father raised her alone.
She had always said she didn’t know much about her childhood.
I had never questioned it.
Now I wondered why.
I called Jessica.
She answered immediately.
“Ethan?”
“Were you adopted?”
Silence.
Then:
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did.”
“No. You said your mother died when you were eight.”
“She did.”
“And your father raised you.”
“Yes.”
“But you were adopted.”
“Yes.”
“Who were your biological parents?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jessica.”
“I genuinely don’t know.”
“Did Richard know?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever tell you?”
“No.”
“Then why did my father write that I should ask why you were adopted?”
Jessica began crying.
“Because he discovered something.”
“What?”
“He discovered that my adoption was connected to yours.”
I couldn’t speak.
“What does that mean?”
“My adoption records were sealed.”
“So?”
“Arthur found an old hospital record.”
“Which record?”
“A document showing that my adoption was finalized the same week you were born.”
My heart stopped.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know.”
“Were you born the same night?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I don’t know.”
I heard a man’s voice in the background.
Jessica stopped speaking.
“Who is there?”
No answer.
“Jessica?”
She whispered:
“Ethan, I have to go.”
“Who is there?”
“Please don’t come here.”
The call ended.
I looked at Maya.
“We need to go.”
“To Jessica’s house?”
“Yes.”
When we arrived, the front door was unlocked.
The house was dark.
“Jessica?”
No answer.
We searched the downstairs rooms.
Her purse was on the kitchen counter.
Her phone was on the floor.
But she was gone.
Then I heard something upstairs.
A drawer closing.
I ran up.
The bedroom was empty.
But the closet door was open.
Inside was a hidden safe.
The combination was written on a piece of paper taped beneath the shelf.
I opened it.
Inside were dozens of documents.
Adoption records.
Hospital records.
Photographs.
And one letter addressed to Jessica.
The letter was signed by Richard Carter.
I read it.
Jessica,
If you’re reading this, then Arthur has finally found the records.
You were never supposed to know who you really were.
My hands shook.
I continued.
You were adopted because your biological parents died under circumstances that were never investigated.
Then the next line:
Your biological mother was Margaret Miller.
I dropped the letter.
Maya picked it up.
“That means…”
“Yes.”
Jessica’s biological mother was the woman connected to my birth.
The same woman whose hospital records my father had been investigating.
But that wasn’t the biggest revelation.
At the bottom of the letter was one final sentence.
Your brother survived.
I stared at the words.
Brother.
Jessica had a brother.
And suddenly the three bassinets made sense.
Maybe there hadn’t been three babies.
Maybe there had been two babies and one secret identity.
Maya turned another document over.
It was a birth certificate.
The name had been blacked out.
But the date was visible.
The same date I was born.
The same hospital.
Then I saw something written in the margin.
Twin B — transferred.
I looked at Maya.
“I’m not an only child.”
She shook her head slowly.
“No.”
My hands trembled.
“Then where is my brother?”
A voice came from behind us.
“You already met him.”
We turned.
Jessica stood in the doorway.
Her face was covered in tears.
“What did you say?”
She looked directly at me.
“My brother.”
She pointed toward the photograph on the dresser.
At first, I didn’t understand.
Then I saw the photograph.
A young man.
Standing beside Jessica.
I had seen him before.
At our wedding.
At family dinners.
At holidays.
He was someone I’d known for years.
Someone I trusted.
Someone who had been quietly present in my life.
Jessica whispered:
“His name is Daniel.”
Maya looked at me.
“Ethan…”
Jessica shook her head.
“Daniel isn’t my brother.”
She looked directly at me.
“He’s yours.”
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