Chapter 13
“A boy?”
I whispered.
Dr.
Mercer nodded.
“Eight years old.”
My throat tightened.
“Where?”
He hesitated.
“Colorado Springs.”
Daniel grabbed the edge of the desk beside him.
“Are you telling us Kesha had five babies?”
The doctor shook his head.
“I'm telling you that a fifth identification record existed, that its history was concealed, and that a child recently presented documentation connected to it.
I cannot tell you what any of that means without verifying the original medical and identity records.”
I appreciated his caution.
But my heart was breaking anyway.
“Who brought the boy to your clinic?”
Dr.
Mercer looked toward Margaret.
“A woman.”
“What woman?”
He took a breath.
“Her name was listed as Evelyn Whitcomb.”
Rebecca gasped.
“Whitcomb?”
Daniel's expression hardened.
“Charles's wife?”
Dr.
Mercer nodded.
I stared at him.
Charles Whitcomb.
The man who had urged me to accept the divorce.
The man whose name appeared on the disputed trust letter.
The man who had fled the estate minutes earlier.
And now his wife had brought an eight-year-old boy to a medical appointment carrying a name connected to my children's birth.
My phone vibrated again.
The same unfamiliar number.
I opened the message.
This time, it contained a photograph.
A little boy stood beside a Christmas tree.
Dark hair.
A slightly crooked smile.
A dimple.
And unmistakable gray eyes.
My breath caught.
He looked like Noah.
Like Ethan.
Like Sophia.
Like Olivia.
I covered my mouth.
Below the photograph was a single sentence.
“He has been waiting eight years to meet his mother.”
I stumbled backward.
Daniel reached toward me.
“Kesha—”
“Don't touch me.”
My voice shook.
I looked at Dr.
Mercer.
“Is that him?”
The doctor studied the photograph.
Then nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
My hands trembled so badly that I nearly dropped the phone.
The next message arrived.
If you want to know who Elijah really is, come to the old Reynolds chapel before midnight.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
Come alone.
I felt something inside me harden.
Whoever was sending these messages had made one terrible mistake.
They believed I was still the frightened young woman who had once accepted silence because she had no power to challenge it.
They were wrong.
I looked toward Lena and my four children.
Then toward Daniel.
Then toward the photograph of a little boy whose existence raised questions nobody in that mansion seemed willing to answer.