Chapter 9: The Children in the Photographs
My mother refused to speak until we were back at the house.
Not in the car.
Not at the facility.
Not even when the police asked her to give a statement.
She kept repeating the same sentence.
"I need to tell Ryan everything.""
By midnight, all three girls were asleep in our living room.
Lily had insisted that Ella sleep beside her.
Emily had placed her yellow sweater on the chair and crawled under a blanket.
For the first time, there was no reason for any child in that house to hide.
I stood in the doorway, watching them.
Three little girls.
Three different stories.
One family.
My mother sat at the kitchen table with a cup of untouched tea.
"Sit down," she said.
I remained standing.
"Tell me why they all have your birthmark.""
She opened an old leather bag.
Inside was a photograph of a young woman holding a newborn baby.
The woman was my mother.
The baby was me.
"Your father wasn't the first person to become obsessed with this mark," she began.
I pulled out a chair.
"Who was?""
"My father.""
I frowned.
"Grandfather?""
She nodded.
"He was a physician. He spent years researching a rare genetic condition that appeared in our family.""
"What condition?""
"An inherited disorder affecting certain blood proteins. It was mostly harmless, but it caused the distinctive crescent-shaped pigmentation beneath the left ear in some children.""
I thought of the birthmarks.
Mine.
Lily's.
Emily's.
Ella's.
"So Dad started tracking everyone who had it?""
"Yes. At first, he called it family research. Then he became obsessed with the idea that the children carrying the marker were connected to a valuable medical discovery.""
"Was there?""
My mother shook her head.
"Not in the way he believed.""
She took another document from the bag.
It was an old research report.
The name at the top belonged to my grandfather.
"Your father inherited his research after he died. But there was a problem.""
"What problem?""
"The children were not all biologically related.""
I stared at her.
"What?""
"Your father believed the mark came from one specific family line. But my father discovered that similar marks could occur in unrelated families. Your father refused to accept it.""
I looked down at the report.
"He built this whole nightmare around a birthmark?""
"Yes.""
I laughed bitterly.
"All those children. All those years.""
My mother nodded.
"He believed he could prove something extraordinary if he collected enough samples.""
I felt sick.
"What happened to the other children?""
She pulled out another folder.
Inside were records of eight children.
Some had been returned to their families.
Some had been placed with relatives.
Others had disappeared from the system entirely.
"Your father called the place where he kept them the House of Recovery.""
I stared.
"Where is it?""
My mother placed an address on the table.
An abandoned estate outside the city.
The same place Ella had mentioned.
"The police have been looking for this property since the facility reported the forged custody order," she said.
I took the paper.
"Why didn't you tell them earlier?""
She lowered her eyes.
"Because I was there when the first child was brought in.""
I stared at her.
"You helped him?""
"I believed he was helping children who needed medical care. By the time I understood what he was doing, I was afraid.""
I stood.
"Everyone was afraid.""
My mother began crying.
"I know.""
I looked toward the living room.
Emily was sleeping with one hand resting on Lily's shoulder.
I thought about the nights she had spent behind the wall.
The bread Lily had secretly given her.
The tiny room.
The drawings.
Then I looked at my mother.
"Why did you come back now?""
She wiped her face.
"Because your father was preparing to move the last child.""
I frowned.
"What last child?""
She hesitated.
Then she pulled out a photograph.
A boy.
Approximately eight years old.
Blond hair.
Blue eyes.
The same crescent-shaped mark.
James.
My supposed brother.
"Where is he?""
My mother looked at the clock.
"At the estate.""
I grabbed my jacket.
She stood immediately.
"Ryan, wait.""
"I'm not leaving another child there.""
"The police are going.""
"Then I'll go with them.""
She caught my arm.
"Your father isn't the only person who knows about that place.""
I looked at her.
"What does that mean?""
She lowered her voice.
"Someone has been protecting him.""
"Who?""
She looked toward the front window.
A car had stopped outside.
Its headlights illuminated the living room.
Then the engine switched off.
My mother whispered:
"Your grandfather's old research partner.""
The police arrived twenty minutes later.
Two officers and a detective named Harris.
They examined the records and confirmed that the estate was already under investigation.
Detective Harris studied the photograph of James.
"We believe this child may be the key to finding the remaining records.""
"Then let's go," I said.
He nodded.
"We're taking you, but you stay with us. No wandering off.""
My mother insisted on coming.
I didn't want her there.
But she knew the property better than anyone.
We arrived at the estate shortly after one in the morning.
The building was enormous.
A former country residence with boarded windows, overgrown gardens, and a stone fountain that had cracked down the middle.
Police lights flashed against the trees.
The front door was unlocked.
Inside, the air smelled of dust and disinfectant.
We moved through a long hallway.
There were children's drawings on the walls.
A red bicycle.
A paper sun.
A family with too many people.
Detective Harris stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
"Do you hear that?""
A faint tapping came from somewhere below us.
Three knocks.
Then silence.
My mother closed her eyes.
"The basement.""
We followed the sound.
Behind a bookcase was a narrow door.
The lock was broken.
Inside was a staircase leading underground.
At the bottom, we found a room full of filing cabinets.
There were dozens of photographs.
Medical records.
Old hospital bracelets.
And a whiteboard covered in names.
I scanned it.
Daniel.
Sophie.
James.
Emily.
Ella.
Lily.
Then I noticed another name.
*RYAN MORGAN.*
Beside it was a date.
The day I was born.
And underneath it:
*SUBJECT ZERO.*
I turned toward my mother.
"What is this?""
She stared at the board.
"I've never seen this.""
A voice came from the far end of the room.
"That's because your father didn't want you to.""
A man stepped out from behind a filing cabinet.
He was in his seventies, wearing a dark suit and carrying a walking stick.
Detective Harris raised his weapon.
"Hands where I can see them!""
The man smiled.
"Detective, I'm Dr. Charles Bennett. I believe we have some unfinished business.""
My mother went pale.
"Charles.""
He looked at her.
"Margaret. It's been a long time.""
I stepped forward.
"Where is James?""
Bennett pointed toward a closed door.
"Safe.""
"Open it.""
He smiled.
"Not until you understand why your father kept you out of the records.""
I moved closer.
"Open the door.""
He sighed.
"Very well.""
He entered a code.
The lock clicked.
Inside was a small room.
A boy sat on a bed, reading a book.
He looked up.
My heart tightened.
The boy had my eyes.
My father's face.
And the same crescent-shaped mark beneath his ear.
"James?""
He stared at me.
Then he closed the book.
"You're Ryan.""
I nodded.
He looked toward my mother.
"Is she the one who told you?""
My mother stepped forward.
"James, sweetheart...""
He backed away.
"Don't.""
My mother stopped.
James looked at me again.
"Your father said you'd come eventually.""
I swallowed.
"Why?""
The boy's eyes filled.
"Because you're the only one he couldn't control.""
I looked at the whiteboard.
Subject Zero.
My birth date.
The medical files.
Then I understood that my father hadn't simply been tracking children with a rare birthmark.
He had been trying to prove something about me.
I turned toward Bennett.
"What am I?""
The old man looked at my mother.
Then back at me.
"You're not the child your father spent his life searching for.""
He paused.
"You're the child he was trying to hide.""
Before I could ask another question, the lights went out.
A gunshot exploded somewhere upstairs.
Detective Harris shouted.
May you like
And James grabbed my hand.
"Don't let him take the book!""
