Chapter 10 - The Photograph in the Mirror
I didn't sleep.
I waited until sunrise, then went to the church.
The front doors were unlocked.
Inside, the sanctuary was empty.
Dust floated through the morning light.
I walked toward the altar.
Nothing.
Then I noticed three candleholders arranged in a row.
Behind them was a note.
BASEMENT.
The church basement smelled of damp stone.
I found a wooden cabinet.
Inside were baptism records.
Marriage records.
Death certificates.
And one folder with my name.
I opened it.
My birth certificate.
Again.
The real one.
Mother: Sarah Mercer.
Father: Unknown.
Birthplace: Blackwater County.
Date: November 12, 2001.
I was not born in St. Louis.
I had been born twenty miles from the farm.
At the hospital that had closed in 2009.
I sat on the basement floor.
Every birthday.
Every school form.
Every medical record.
All of it had been falsified.
Why?
I opened the folder further.
There were photographs.
Me as a baby.
Me at three.
Me at six.
Me at ten.
Someone had been watching me my entire life.
Then I found a photograph taken when I was fourteen.
I was outside my school.
Standing fifty yards away was a woman.
Sarah.
My mother.
Alive.
Watching.
I turned the picture over.
SHE NEVER LEFT.
Behind me, the basement door creaked.
I spun.
Nobody.
Then I saw the small television mounted on the wall.
It turned on.
Static.
A recording appeared.
Grandpa sat at the kitchen table.
He looked older than in the photographs.
Weak.
Exhausted.
“Hannah.”
I stepped closer.
“If you're watching this, Sarah has finally decided she cannot hide from you anymore.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“She loved you enough to leave.”
The screen flickered.
“She believed I could protect you.”
He looked off camera.
“I failed.”
A woman entered the frame.
My mother.
Older.
Gray-haired.
But unmistakably Sarah.
I stopped breathing.
She sat beside him.
“Hannah,” she said.
I reached for the television.
“You may hate me.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“You should.”
She looked directly into the camera.
“I left you because I thought Redwood would kill you to silence me.”
She told the story.
In 1999, she discovered the underground dumping system.
She photographed the barrels.
She copied contracts.
She confronted Elias.
He threatened her.
Then Robert tried to help.
But someone inside the Walker family sold her out.
Her own mother.
My grandmother.
“She told them where I was hiding,” Sarah said.
“Henry got me out.”
A pause.
“He made everyone believe I had died.”
She looked toward Grandpa.
“Years passed.”
Then my mother whispered:
“Your grandfather searched for the evidence.”
“Twenty-seven years.”
“And six months ago, he found it.”
The screen went black.
A final sentence appeared.
HENRY DID NOT DISAPPEAR. HE WAS TAKEN.
I stared.
Then the phone in my hand buzzed.
One message.
YOUR GRANDFATHER IS ALIVE.
Another arrived.
BUT YOU HAVE SIX HOURS TO FIND HIM.
Then a photograph.
Grandpa.
Alive.
Sitting in a dark room.
His wrists were tied.
Beside him stood Elias Voss.
And behind them was a second man.
Robert.
My uncle.
I stared at the photograph.
Robert had been lying.
Maybe he had been lying from the beginning.
Then another message appeared.
May you like
COME TO THE WESTERN PASTURE ALONE.
OR HENRY DIES.
