Chapter 4 - The PhotographWe didn't go home.
Dad drove us to an abandoned farmhouse outside town.
No lights.
No neighbors.
No cell service.
For the first time, nobody pretended everything was normal.
Dad sat at an old kitchen table.
He placed a metal box in front of me.
“What is that?”
“Everything I should've shown you years ago.”
He unlocked it.
Inside were photographs.
Dozens.
Hospital records.
Letters.
A tiny silver bracelet.
And one photograph that made my entire body go numb.
It showed a newborn baby.
The picture was dated March 12, 2007.
The baby's face was difficult to see.
But his left shoulder was visible.
A crescent-shaped birthmark.
My birthmark.
I looked at Dad.
“That isn't me.”
His face crumpled.
“No.”
“What does that mean?”
“That is your brother.”
I stared at the photograph.
“I don't have a brother.”
“You did.”
“Did?”
Dad nodded.
“You had a twin.”
The room went silent.
My mother covered her face.
“You told everyone I was an only child.”
“We were told your brother died.”
“Was he the baby you saw?”
Dad looked at the photograph.
“No.”
Dr. Brennan's words returned to me.
The baby she delivered was dead.
But the photograph showed a living child.
“So there were two babies.”
Dad nodded.
“You and your twin were born minutes apart.”
“Then why did the hospital say one baby was stillborn?”
Dad stared at the table.
“Because they only registered one.”
My stomach twisted.
“What happened to the other?”
Dad didn't answer.
I picked up the silver bracelet.
It had an engraving.
C-1
“What does this mean?”
Mom whispered:
“Connor One.”
I looked at her.
“Why would I have a bracelet that says Connor One?”
Dad's expression hardened.
“There was another one.”
“C-2?”
He nodded.
“What happened to it?”
“We don't know.”
A sound came from outside.
Crunch.
Gravel.
Someone was walking toward the farmhouse.
Dad stood.
He reached for the gun.
“Stay here.”
Footsteps came closer.
The door opened.
A woman entered.
She was in her fifties.
Short dark hair.
Black coat.
She stared at me.
Her lips parted.
“Oh my God.”
Dad lowered the gun.
“Margaret.”
She ignored him.
She walked toward me.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I thought you were dead.”
I stood.
“Who are you?”
She whispered:
“I was your mother's nurse.”
Mom turned white.
“You were there?”
Margaret nodded.
“I was there the night you were born.”
Dad asked:
“Did you see them take the baby?”
Margaret looked at me.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
She hesitated.
Then whispered:
“Dr. Elias Voss.”
Dad's face hardened.
“Voss is dead.”
Margaret shook her head.
“No.”
She looked at me.
“He's alive.”
My blood ran cold.
“How do you know?”
Margaret reached into her coat.
She pulled out a photograph.
A recent one.
A man in a gray suit standing outside a hospital.
The date was printed in the corner.
Two months ago.
Margaret whispered:
“Because he came back.”
Then she pointed to the photograph.
And standing beside Dr. Voss was a boy.
A seventeen-year-old boy.
My height.
My face.
My eyes.
My identical face.
I couldn't breathe.
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Under the photograph, someone had written a single name:
CONNOR HAYES.
