Chapter 2 - Rafe had spent twenty-two years convincing himself that Elias Mercer was dead.He had built an entire life around that lie.
The scar above his eye had been the last physical evidence of the boy he used to be.
Everything else had been buried.
The house.
His father.
His mother.
The fire.
The screaming.
The name.
Elias.
He had become Rafe because Elias was supposed to have died that night.
Now the woman sitting beneath the pharmacy awning had dragged that ghost into the rain.
Rafe looked toward the black sedan.
The driver's window was tinted too heavily to see through.
"Stay here," he told the woman.
She grabbed his sleeve.
"No."
Her voice shook.
"Don't go after them."
"Who are they?"
"Not here."
"You just told me they know I'm alive."
"They know more than that."
The police officer approached.
"Everything okay?"
Rafe looked at him.
Then at the sedan.
When he looked back, the sedan was gone.
Only rain remained.
The woman suddenly coughed.
Hard.
Her entire body folded in on itself.
Rafe caught her before she hit the pavement.
"Hey."
She gripped his vest.
"There's a photograph."
"What?"
"In my coat."
Rafe looked down.
Her coat was soaked and torn.
He reached inside the lining.
His fingers touched something hard.
A metal box.
He pulled it free.
The box was tiny.
Old.
Blackened around the edges.
Burn marks covered the lid.
Rafe recognized it immediately.
His breathing stopped.
It was from his childhood home.
He had seen it once.
On his mother's dresser.
"What is this?"
The woman looked away.
"You'll know."
Rafe opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Three children stood in front of a Christmas tree.
One was a boy of about eight.
One was a girl of six.
The third child was a baby.
Rafe stared.
He recognized himself.
He recognized the girl.
Lena.
His younger sister.
The official story said Lena died in the fire.
But the photograph had something else.
On the back was a handwritten sentence.
Rafe turned it over.
His mother's handwriting.
Elias, if you're reading this, Lena is alive.
His fingers began to shake.
"No."
The woman lowered her eyes.
"Your sister was never in that house."
Rafe couldn't breathe.
"Where is she?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
The old woman looked toward the street.
"On whether she survived the people who took her."
The police officer stepped closer.
"Sir, I think we need to get her somewhere safe."
Rafe nodded.
Then the woman whispered.
"No hospitals."
"Why?"
"Because that's where they found me."
Rafe's jaw tightened.
"Found you where?"
She looked directly at him.
"In the records."
"What records?"
She swallowed.
"The death records."
Rafe stared.
"I don't understand."
"You weren't Elias Mercer."
He blinked.
"What?"
"That was never your legal name."
She pulled a small folded paper from her coat.
"Your father changed it."
Rafe opened it.
His eyes scanned the faded document.
At the bottom was a name.
Not Mercer.
A different surname.
One that meant nothing to him.
Yet the signature beside it belonged to his father.
Rafe looked up.
"What was my father hiding?"
The woman's expression changed.
Fear returned.
"He wasn't hiding something."
She leaned closer.
"He was hiding someone."
"Who?"
She whispered:
"Your mother."
Rafe stared at her.
"My mother died."
"No."
The woman shook her head.
"Your mother escaped."
"Then where is she?"
The old woman hesitated.
"Closer than you think."
Before Rafe could respond, a motorcycle engine roared from behind the pharmacy.
A second biker emerged from the alley.
Black helmet.
Black jacket.
He stopped beside the curb.
Then slowly raised one hand.
There was a gun in it.
The officer shouted.
The biker fired.
The bullet struck the pharmacy window above Rafe's head.
Glass exploded.
The crowd screamed.
Rafe threw himself over the old woman.
Another shot cracked through the rain.
Then the biker sped away.
Rafe lifted his head.
The old woman was breathing hard.
And beneath her coat, something red was spreading across her ribs.
She looked at him.
"I knew they'd come."
Rafe's face hardened.
"Who shot you?"
May you like
Her eyes closed.
"Your father."
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