Chapter 6 - The Brother No One MentionedMy father's death certificate listed one child.
Me.
My mother's hospital records listed one child.
Me.
My school documents.
Me.
Every official record.
Me.
Yet my mother had just referred to my brother.
I drove to my mother's old house.
It had been empty since the police removed everyone from my birthday party.
I entered with Detective Hart and my attorney.
We searched the study first.
Locked cabinets.
Old photos.
Tax documents.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a framed photograph behind a stack of books.
It showed my parents.
They were younger.
My mother was holding a baby.
I took the frame down.
“That's not me.”
Detective Hart looked at the photograph.
“Who is that?”
“I don't know.”
There was a date on the back.
November 18.
Thirty-five years ago.
One year before I was born.
My mother's handwriting was underneath.
MICHAEL.
I felt dizzy.
“Michael?”
Detective Hart nodded.
“We need to find out who he is.”
We searched again.
This time we found a hidden drawer.
Inside were hospital records.
Adoption documents.
And a handwritten letter.
I opened it.
My father's handwriting.
Michael was our first son.
He was taken from us.
Your mother says we must never speak of him again.
I stared at the page.
My father had known.
But the letter continued.
If anything happens to me, protect Connor from Teresa's family.
Do not trust Harold.
My mother's brother.
Harold.
The name of the attorney standing beside Victor Hale in several photographs.
My attorney saw it.
“Harold is a business partner.”
“Of Victor?”
“Yes.”
I felt sick.
This wasn't a family conflict.
It was a network.
My mother.
My uncle.
Victor Hale.
And apparently my missing brother.
But why had my mother hidden Michael?
We found the answer in a second envelope.
Michael hadn't disappeared.
He had been placed in foster care.
Then adopted.
Years later, his adoptive parents had died.
And Michael had become an investor.
His legal name now?
Michael Cross.
Daniel Cross.
The notary.
I stared at Detective Hart.
“The notary isn't Michael.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Then she looked at the records.
“Wait.”
The documents showed two men.
Daniel Cross was his legal name.
Michael was the name my father had used.
The same man had signed my fraudulent papers.
My missing brother was the notary.
My own brother had helped my mother forge my documents.
I drove home in silence.
When I arrived, Amy was waiting.
“How did it go?”
I hesitated.
“I found out I have a brother.”
She stared.
“Connor…”
“His name is Michael.”
She sat down slowly.
“Where is he?”
I handed her the photograph.
She looked at it.
Then her face changed.
“What?”
She pointed at the baby.
“That’s not a baby.”
“What do you mean?”
She zoomed in.
Behind my father stood an older woman.
Holding an envelope.
The same woman appeared in another photograph.
A picture taken inside our house.
Years later.
I recognized her.
She had been at our birthday party.
A distant relative.
But she wasn't family.
She was a social worker.
Amy whispered:
“She was involved in the adoption.”
I felt the pieces begin to align.
Michael wasn't simply hidden.
He had been managed.
Controlled.
Used.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A man's voice said:
“Brother.”
I froze.
Michael.
“You've been asking questions,” he said.
“Where are you?”
“Closer than you think.”
“Did you help my mother?”
Silence.
Then:
“I helped her because she made me an offer.”
“What offer?”
“She promised to give me what our father left me.”
I clenched my jaw.
“What did Dad leave you?”
Michael laughed softly.
“Not money.”
“What?”
“A recording.”
The call ended.
I immediately called my attorney.
But before I could explain, a message arrived from Michael.
One photograph.
It showed my father sitting in a chair.
Alive.
May you like
And beside him stood my mother.
The date on the photograph was five months after the day my father had supposedly died.
