Chapter 9: The Family Lie
My father was gone.
One second he had been standing beside Emma's empty hospital bed.
The next, the doorway was empty.
I stared at it.
“Where did he go?”
Detective Harris immediately reached for his radio.
“Lock the exits.”
My hands were shaking.
“Emma is missing.”
“I know.”
“Rachel is missing.”
“I know.”
“And now my father disappeared.”
Harris looked at me.
“We'll find them.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“What?”
“We keep reacting.”
I pointed toward the empty bed.
“Someone is always one step ahead of us.”
Harris said nothing.
“They knew when Emma would be vulnerable.”
“They knew about the ledger.”
“They knew about my house.”
“They knew about Rachel.”
“And they knew my father was here.”
Harris's jaw tightened.
“You think there's someone inside the hospital.”
“I know there is.”
He looked toward the officers.
“Search every floor.”
Then Mark called out.
“Wait.”
We turned.
He was sitting in a wheelchair beside the treatment room.
His shoulder was bandaged.
His face was pale.
“Don't search the hospital.”
Harris frowned.
“Why?”
“Because Emma isn't here.”
“How do you know?”
“Because whoever took her wanted us to think she was taken.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
Mark looked at me.
“They left the key.”
“The silver key?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because they wanted you to find it.”
I held it up.
“What does it open?”
Mark's eyes narrowed.
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“No.”
“You know something.”
He looked away.
“I've seen that key before.”
“Where?”
“In your mother's house.”
My heart stopped.
The house my father had just mentioned.
The house my mother supposedly sold.
The house that apparently still belonged to me.
“Where is it?”
Mark hesitated.
“Outside Annapolis.”
Harris immediately stepped forward.
“Address.”
Mark gave it.
Harris entered it into his phone.
Then his expression changed.
“What?”
“The property doesn't exist.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“The address belongs to an empty lot.”
Mark looked confused.
“That can't be.”
Harris turned the screen around.
Aerial imagery showed a vacant piece of land.
No house.
No driveway.
Nothing.
Mark whispered:
“They moved it.”
I stared at him.
“Moved a house?”
“No.”
His eyes widened.
“The address.”
Two hours later, we were driving toward the empty lot.
Police vehicles followed behind us.
The sun had risen.
The world outside looked painfully normal.
People were walking dogs.
Cars were going to work.
Children were waiting for school buses.
Nobody knew that my daughter had disappeared.
Nobody knew that my husband had been shot.
Nobody knew my dead father might be alive.
And nobody knew my family had apparently been living inside a lie for more than a decade.
We reached the property.
There was nothing there.
Just grass.
Trees.
An old mailbox.
Detective Harris stepped out.
Mark remained in the vehicle.
I walked toward the mailbox.
Something was scratched into the metal.
A number.
17.
I touched it.
My father had once told me something when I was little.
A childhood game.
Whenever I was afraid, he told me to count to seventeen.
I had never understood why.
I suddenly remembered.
“Dad?”
Harris looked at me.
“What?”
“Seventeen.”
“What about it?”
“The number.”
He walked over.
I showed him.
He examined the mailbox.
Then opened it.
Inside was a small envelope.
My name was written on it.
SARAH CARTER
My hands went cold.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
My mother.
Holding a baby.
I stared.
The baby was me.
But my mother wasn't alone.
Standing behind her was another little girl.
A child about four years old.
I looked at the photograph again.
Then at the date.
It was dated three years before I was born.
My heart stopped.
“Who is that?”
Mark had stepped out of the vehicle.
He looked at the photograph.
His face changed.
“Oh God.”
“What?”
He didn't answer.
“Mark!”
He whispered:
“Your sister.”
I stared at him.
“I don't have a sister.”
He looked at me.
“That's what they told you.”
My knees weakened.
“What are you saying?”
Mark swallowed.
“You had a sister.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Who is she?”
Mark pointed at the photograph.
“Her name was Rachel.”
I couldn't breathe.
I turned toward the road.
Rachel.
My sister.
The woman who had been beside me for my entire life.
The woman who had just disappeared.
“No.”
Mark nodded.
“Yes.”
“That photograph is fake.”
“No.”
“My sister was born after me.”
“That's what you were told.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because your sister wasn't supposed to survive.”
The police searched the property for hours.
They found no building.
No underground room.
No obvious entrance.
Then one officer discovered something beneath the old mailbox.
A metal hatch.
It opened with the silver key.
We descended.
The tunnel below was enormous.
Lights flickered on automatically.
The walls were covered with photographs.
Hundreds of them.
People.
Dates.
Addresses.
Names.
My mother.
My father.
Mark.
Rachel.
Me.
Emma.
I walked toward a wall covered with photographs of my childhood.
There was one of me at six years old.
Another at ten.
Another at thirteen.
Then one from my wedding.
Someone had been watching me my entire life.
I turned to Mark.
“Who did this?”
He looked sick.
“The organization.”
“Why?”
He pointed toward the far wall.
There was one final photograph.
Emma.
Taken three months ago.
She was standing outside her school.
The date was printed beneath it.
MARCH 18, 2026.
I touched the image.
“Someone has been following my daughter.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“I don't know.”
Then I noticed something written beneath the photograph.
Not a date.
A sentence.
THE GIRL IS THE KEY.
My blood ran cold.
“The girl?”
Mark stepped closer.
“Sarah…”
“What?”
“Look at the next photograph.”
I did.
It was Rachel.
But she wasn't alone.
She was standing beside a woman.
A woman I recognized.
My mother.
Older.
Alive.
I dropped the photograph.
“No.”
Mark picked it up.
“Your mother is alive.”
I stared at him.
“Where?”
Before he could answer, every light in the tunnel went out.
A speaker crackled overhead.
Then a woman's voice filled the darkness.
My mother's voice.
“Sarah.”
I stopped breathing.
“Mom?”
A pause.
Then:
“If you're hearing this, your daughter has already been taken.”
My heart shattered.
The recording continued.
“And there is only one person who can bring her back.”
The voice trembled.
“Your sister.”
Rachel.
Then the recording ended.
A single light turned on.
It illuminated a chair in the center of the room.
On it was a small pink backpack.
Emma's.
I rushed toward it.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
I opened it.
Only one sentence was written.
COME ALONE IF YOU WANT EMMA TO LIVE.
Underneath was an address.
And beneath the address was a name.
MALCOLM REED.
I looked at Mark.
He went pale.
“That's impossible.”
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“Why?”
“Because Malcolm is dead.”
