Chapter 8 - THE CHILDI drove to St. Matthew's alone.
Rebecca wanted to come.
I refused.
Not because I trusted Aaron.
Because I needed to know whether there was a single truth left in my life that belonged to me.
Aaron was waiting in a private recovery room.
His face was pale.
There was blood on his shirt collar.
“What happened?”
He looked at me.
“Sit down.”
I stayed standing.
“You said I had a child.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
He swallowed.
“Noah.”
“Where is he?”
Aaron looked toward the window.
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“I can't tell you.”
I stepped closer.
“You have five seconds.”
He closed his eyes.
Then whispered:
“Montrose Academy.”
I stared.
“That school?”
“Yes.”
“Why would my child be there?”
“Because your father wanted him hidden.”
I shook my head.
“My father died three years ago.”
“The decision was made before that.”
I couldn't think.
“When?”
Aaron looked at me.
“Nine years ago.”
Nine years.
My memory suddenly fractured.
There was a hospital.
Rain.
A complication.
A nurse telling me my baby had died.
My mother's tears.
My father's silence.
Then nothing.
I had spent years believing I had lost my child.
Aaron had known.
My voice came out broken.
“Was he alive?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
He looked at me.
“Because I was ordered not to.”
“By my father?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because there was a threat.”
“What threat?”
Aaron's jaw tightened.
“Roland Vale.”
I stared at him.
“Roland was dead.”
“Officially.”
I felt cold.
“Aaron…”
“He wanted the child.”
“Why?”
“Because the child was the key to the trust.”
I stepped backward.
“No.”
“Yes.”
He reached into a drawer.
Pulled out a photograph.
A boy.
Eight years old.
Dark hair.
Serious eyes.
Standing in a school uniform.
I took the picture.
My hands trembled.
His face was unfamiliar.
And yet something inside me recognized him.
The shape of his eyes.
The small crease near his left eyebrow.
My father had the same one.
I whispered:
“He's mine.”
Aaron nodded.
“Yes.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Why would you keep him from me?”
“Because your father believed you would be safer.”
“And you?”
“I believed you would come looking.”
“I was grieving.”
“I know.”
“You watched me grieve.”
Aaron looked away.
“I had no choice.”
I slapped him.
The sound echoed through the room.
“You always have a choice.”
His face turned.
I could barely breathe.
“You let me think my son was dead.”
“I protected him.”
“You protected yourself.”
He didn't answer.
Then the door opened.
Jasmine entered.
Aaron stood.
“Why are you here?”
She ignored him.
She looked at me.
“I told you he was hiding something.”
“You knew about Noah?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because I found the original birth records.”
“Where?”
“In Aaron's private archive.”
She pulled out a file.
Inside was my name.
My date of birth.
Aaron's name.
And a photograph.
A newborn baby.
My baby.
I began crying before I realized it.
Jasmine continued.
“But there's something else.”
She handed me another document.
A custody agreement.
Signed by my father.
Aaron.
And Eleanor.
My mother in law.
The date was nine years ago.
At the bottom was a clause.
Child shall remain concealed until transfer of controlling trust rights is secured.
I looked at Aaron.
“You sold my child.”
“No.”
“You used him as leverage.”
“I protected him!”
“You stole him!”
His voice cracked.
“I loved him.”
I froze.
The silence between us became unbearable.
Then Jasmine said quietly:
“He's not at Montrose.”
I turned.
“What?”
She looked at Aaron.
“He moved Noah three weeks ago.”
Aaron went pale.
“Jasmine.”
“Where is he?”
She looked at me.
“I don't know.”
Aaron grabbed her arm.
“Stop.”
She pulled away.
“I found the transfer order.”
“To where?”
She whispered:
“Blackwood House.”
My blood ran cold.
“What is Blackwood House?”
Jasmine looked at me.
“Your mother knows.”
I called my mother.
She answered on the first ring.
“Mom.”
Silence.
“Where is Noah?”
Her breath caught.
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“Then it's too late.”
“What do you mean?”
She began to cry.
“Your father kept one final secret.”
“Tell me.”
“He wasn't protecting Noah from Roland.”
“Then who?”
My mother whispered:
“From Aaron.”
I stared at the phone.
Behind me, Aaron said my name.
I turned slowly.
He looked terrified.
And for the first time since I had met him, I saw something in his eyes that wasn't guilt.
It was fear.
Real fear.
“Alyssa,” he said.
“What is Blackwood House?”
He didn't answer.
I repeated it.
He whispered:
“Don't go there.”
“Why?”
“Because if you open that door…”
May you like
He stopped.
“Someone will die.”
Related Stories
