Chapter 13 - The BloodlineThe genetic report listed a surname I had never heard.
Hollister.
Samuel explained that the Hollister family had controlled a major private healthcare network for generations.
Arthur Voss had married into the family.
“The marker you carry is associated with a rare hereditary disorder,” he said.
“That doesn't explain anything.”
“It does if you're trying to inherit something.”
I stared at him.
“Inherit what?”
“A trust.”
“How much?”
“According to archived records, nearly fifty million dollars.”
The room went silent.
I laughed.
“You're telling me someone tried to steal a baby over fifty million dollars?”
“Not someone.”
“Voss.”
“And Wayne.”
I looked at the diary.
Mama had known.
Maybe that's why she had protected me so fiercely.
Why she had forbidden me from touching the flour tin.
Why she had never trusted Wayne.
Why she had hidden money instead of spending it.
But there was one problem.
“What does Emily have to do with the Hollister family?”
Samuel's expression darkened.
“Nothing.”
I looked at Emily.
“Then why was she taken?”
“Because Wayne needed a dead child.”
“A cover.”
“Yes.”
Emily stood.
“Then I was just collateral.”
Samuel shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
“Your adoption wasn't random.”
He showed us another document.
A hospital placement form.
The name of the adoptive family had been selected before Emily was born.
The signature belonged to Arthur Voss.
Emily stared.
“He chose my family?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Samuel pointed to the final page.
“Because they were close to your mother's circle.”
Emily looked at me.
“What does that mean?”
Samuel answered.
“They were your mother's distant relatives.”
My mouth went dry.
“So Emily was raised by family.”
“Yes.”
“Did they know?”
Samuel shook his head.
“Not all of it.”
Emily sat down.
Tears rolled down her face.
“For twenty years, they called me lucky.”
She laughed bitterly.
“They told me I had been chosen.”
I reached for her hand.
She let me.
Then the office door exploded inward.
A man in a dark jacket entered.
Samuel shouted.
“Down!”
I dropped.
Glass shattered.
Emily screamed.
Russell grabbed her.
The man fired again.
Then disappeared through the hallway.
Silence.
Police arrived minutes later.
The shooter was gone.
On Samuel's desk lay a single envelope.
No fingerprints.
Inside was one photograph.
It showed Russell.
At nineteen years old.
Standing beside Wayne.
And on the back:
Ask him what happened the night Michael Hale died.
I looked at my brother.
His face collapsed.
“Russell?”
He didn't answer.
“Did you kill our father?”
He looked at me.
May you like
And whispered:
“I was there.”
