Chapter 3 - The Basement FileNobody spoke on the drive home.
Dad kept both hands on the steering wheel.
Mom stared out the passenger window.
I sat in the back, gripping the photograph the officer had given us.
HE KNOWS NOW.
Who was "he"?
Who had written it?
And why did someone care whether I knew about my own birth?
When we got home, Dad locked the doors.
Then the windows.
Then checked the backyard.
That scared me more than anything.
My father had never been afraid of anyone.
He was the kind of man who fixed broken fences himself and confronted angry neighbors without blinking.
Now his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
“Dad.”
He looked at me.
“Where were you born?”
He stared at the floor.
“St. Mary’s.”
“No.”
I held up the death certificate.
“Where was I born?”
His voice cracked.
“I don't know.”
That answer destroyed something inside me.
My whole life had been built around a story that wasn't true.
My mother suddenly rose.
“We need to leave.”
Dad looked at her.
“Not yet.”
“Yes.”
“He has a right to know.”
“And if they find out?”
I froze.
“They?”
Dad didn't answer.
“Who are they?”
Mom started crying.
Dad whispered:
“There were people at the hospital.”
“What people?”
“Doctors. Administrators. Security.”
“Why would they care about me?”
“Because of what happened.”
“What happened?”
Dad looked at Mom.
She nodded weakly.
He finally said:
“You weren't supposed to survive.”
The room went silent.
I felt cold.
“Survive what?”
Before Dad could answer, the doorbell rang.
Three slow presses.
Ding.
Pause.
Ding.
Pause.
Ding.
Dad immediately reached for the kitchen drawer.
He took out a gun.
My blood ran cold.
“Dad?”
“Stay upstairs.”
“Who is it?”
He didn't answer.
He moved toward the door.
I followed.
He glared at me.
“Connor.”
Another knock.
Then a man's voice.
“Mr. Hayes?”
Dad froze.
The voice continued.
“My name is Daniel Ward. I'm with the county records office.”
Dad whispered:
“No.”
He didn't open the door.
Ward spoke through it.
“We need to discuss your son's birth records.”
Dad slowly stepped back.
“How did you find us?”
Silence.
Then:
“Because someone updated his file today.”
Dad looked at me.
“What update?”
The man outside answered.
“His status changed.”
My chest tightened.
“What status?”
The man said:
“Deceased.”
Mom screamed.
Dad grabbed my arm.
“Run.”
We moved.
Dad pushed open the back door.
We sprinted across the yard.
A black SUV was parked across the street.
Its headlights turned on.
“Dad!”
“Keep running!”
We cut through the neighbor's yard.
A car horn blared.
Someone shouted.
We ducked behind a fence.
My father pulled out his phone.
He called someone.
“It's happened again.”
A pause.
Then:
“He's alive.”
Another pause.
“No, she saw him.”
Dad's face changed.
“Elizabeth Brennan.”
He hung up.
I stared at him.
“Who did you call?”
He looked at me.
“Someone I hoped I'd never need again.”
“Who?”
He swallowed.
“Your mother.”
I stared at Mom.
Then Dad corrected himself.
“No.”
“Your real mother.”
For several seconds, I couldn't breathe.
“She's alive?”
Dad shook his head.
“I don't know.”
He pulled a key from around his neck.
“Your birth records are hidden somewhere.”
“Where?”
He stared toward the black SUV.
“Under St. Mary’s Hospital.”
And then I understood why everyone seemed terrified.
May you like
They weren't hiding who I was.
They were hiding what had happened to me.
