Chapter 8
I called Officer Ruiz before I returned to Emma’s room.
“Rachel has a brother named Thomas.”
A pause.
“We’re aware.”
“You’re aware?”
“We found family records.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because we are investigating him.”
My pulse quickened.
“Is he the man Emma heard?”
“We don’t know.”
“Michael says Thomas disappeared.”
“He changed his surname several years ago.”
“To what?”
“I can’t share everything while we’re verifying identities.”
“This involves my daughter.”
“I understand.”
“Then tell me whether he lives near us.”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
“How near?”
“Daniel.”
“How near?”
“Approximately twenty minutes from your residence.”
I leaned against the hospital wall.
I had believed Rachel acted alone.
Now there might be someone else.
Someone who shared her obsession with Sarah.
“Has he been near Emma?”
“We’re checking.”
“Rachel had photographs of us.”
“Yes.”
“Could Thomas have taken them?”
“Possibly.”
I closed my eyes.
“Is Rachel still at the cabin?”
“Yes.”
“In custody?”
“She is being transported for questioning.”
“Good.”
I returned to Emma’s room.
She was coloring a picture for the nurse.
“Daddy, you look mad.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You think angry.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“Apparently.”
She handed me the picture.
A house.
Three stick figures.
Grandma.
Emma.
Me.
No Rachel.
“Who’s this?” I asked, pointing to a fourth shape near the edge.
Emma hesitated.
“Secret man.”
My skin prickled.
“What secret man?”
She looked down.
“The man who came when I was sleeping.”
Mom and I exchanged a glance.
“You saw him?”
“Once.”
“What did he look like?”
She shrugged.
“Big.”
“Hair?”
“Brown.”
“Did Rachel say his name?”
Emma shook her head.
“She said Uncle.”
My heart raced.
“Uncle Thomas?”
Emma’s eyes widened.
“You know him?”
“No.”
“Rachel said not to tell.”
I crouched.
“Why?”
“She said Uncle was helping us become a real family.”
There it was again.
Real family.
“What did Uncle do?”
Emma pulled at the edge of the paper.
“He took pictures.”
“Of you?”
She nodded.
“Did he ever touch you?”
“No.”
“Did he ever take you anywhere?”
“No.”
“Did he give you food or drinks?”
She shook her head.
I forced myself not to push too hard.
“Did he say anything to you?”
Emma thought for a long time.
“He said I had Sarah’s eyes.”
My breath caught.
“How did he say it?”
“Mean.”
Mom covered her mouth.
Emma looked worried.
“Did I do bad?”
“No.”
I hugged her.
“You did perfect.”
When we got home from the hospital, Officer Ruiz and Lena were waiting.
They spoke with Emma again.
Then Ruiz pulled me aside.
“We identified Thomas.”
“Who is he?”
“Thomas Bell. Born Thomas Whitmore.”
“Rachel’s maiden name is Whitmore.”
“Yes.”
“What does he do?”
“Private security work.”
My stomach dropped.
“Meaning?”
“Surveillance, background investigations, physical security.”
The photographs.
The routines.
The detailed planning.
Rachel hadn’t just stalked us herself.
She had access to someone who did it professionally.
“Does he own weapons?”
“He has permits for several firearms.”
I looked toward the living room where Emma sat with Lena.
“Is he dangerous?”
“We don’t know.”
“That answer is getting old.”
Ruiz didn’t react.
“We’re trying to locate him.”
“You don’t know where he is?”
“He didn’t report to work today.”
“Does Rachel know?”
“We are asking her.”
“What is she saying?”
“That Thomas had nothing to do with disciplining Emma.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“She acknowledges he visited your home occasionally when you were at work.”
My hands curled into fists.
“She brought a man into my house around my daughter and hid it from me.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Rachel claims Thomas helped investigate whether you were ‘appropriate’ before she married you.”
I laughed bitterly.
“She married me three years ago. Why was he still coming over?”
“That’s one of our questions.”
My phone buzzed.
An email.
Unknown sender.
Subject line:
YOU DESERVE THE TRUTH.
I showed Ruiz before opening it.
She nodded.
“Let me see.”
The message contained one line.
Rachel is sick, but she didn’t start this. Sarah did.
Attached were six photographs.
The first showed Sarah at college.
The second showed Rachel crying outside a dorm.
The third showed Michael arguing with Sarah.
The fourth showed Rachel being loaded into an ambulance.
The fifth showed Sarah and me leaving our wedding ceremony.
Taken from across the street.
My blood ran cold.
The sixth photograph showed Emma.
Two years old.
Sleeping in my old apartment.
Taken through her bedroom window.
I almost dropped the phone.
Ruiz immediately forwarded the email to herself.
“This is Thomas.”
“You know?”
“No. But it’s likely.”
I stared at the photograph.
Someone had stood outside my daughter’s window while she slept.
Years before Rachel married me.
“How did I miss this?”
Ruiz looked at me.
“People who conduct surveillance professionally are good at not being noticed.”
“I should have protected her.”
“You cannot protect against things you don’t know exist.”
I wanted to believe that.
But guilt didn’t listen to logic.
Another email arrived.
Same sender.
You think Rachel hated Emma because she was Sarah’s daughter.
You’re wrong.
My pulse quickened.
Ruiz told me not to respond.
A third email.
Rachel loved Emma until she learned the truth.
I frowned.
“What truth?”
Ruiz took screenshots.
Then another message arrived.
Ask Michael what the DNA test showed.
I stared at it.
“Michael hasn’t done a DNA test.”
Ruiz looked at me.
“Are you sure?”
“He said he didn’t even know Emma existed until two days ago.”
“Call your lawyer.”
Karen answered.
I explained.
“I’m contacting Michael’s attorney.”
“He has one already?”
“He retained counsel this morning.”
That bothered me, though it was sensible.
Twenty minutes later, Karen called back.
“Michael did a DNA test.”
My heart stopped.
“When?”
“Not recently.”
“What does that mean?”
“Six years ago.”
I gripped the table.
“He lied.”
“Yes.”
“Is he Emma’s father?”
Karen paused.
“No.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“What?”
“The result excluded him.”
I couldn’t process it.
“But Sarah’s notarized statement—”
“Was wrong, or intentionally false.”
“Michael knew?”
“Yes.”
“He knew for six years that Emma wasn’t his?”
“Yes.”
“And he sat across from me yesterday pretending he thought she might be?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I thought of the hospital.
Emma hearing a man say, “She isn’t mine until there’s a test.”
Maybe that hadn’t been months ago.
Maybe a six-year-old’s sense of time was confused.
Or maybe there had been another test.
“Where did Michael get Emma’s DNA six years ago?”
Karen went silent.
“I asked his attorney the same question.”
“And?”
“Rachel provided it.”
My blood went cold.
“Rachel?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Shortly after Emma was born.”
Impossible.
Rachel had supposedly been out of Sarah’s life.
I looked at Ruiz.
She was watching my face.
I put the phone on speaker.
Karen continued.
“According to Michael’s attorney, Rachel mailed him a home paternity kit with a sample she claimed came from Sarah’s baby.”
“How did Rachel get a sample from Emma?”
“We don’t know.”
I remembered newborn Emma.
Visitors.
Hospital staff.
Sarah’s mother.
My mother.
Friends.
Had Rachel been there?
No.
I would have remembered.
Unless she hadn’t approached us openly.
Karen said, “Daniel, there’s another problem.”
“What?”
“The lab report lists the tested child under initials E.C.”
“Emma Carter.”
“Yes.”
“So Rachel knew her name.”
“Apparently.”
“Before she supposedly ever met me.”
“Yes.”
I felt nauseated.
“Who is Emma’s biological father?”
“We don’t know.”
I looked toward Emma.
Every adult around her had turned her biology into a weapon.
Sarah lied.
Rachel lied.
Michael lied.
Thomas lurked in the shadows.
Enough.
“I don’t care.”
Karen paused.
“What?”
“I don’t care who her biological father is.”
“I understand.”
“No. I need everyone to understand. I am not turning Emma into a prize people fight over because of DNA.”
“No one is suggesting that.”
“I want the legal issue secured.”
“We’re working on it.”
“I want confirmation that I am her legal father.”
“You are presumed to be under the circumstances, but I’m gathering records.”
“Good.”
After the call, Ruiz asked me to forward the emails.
Then she said something that made me uneasy.
“If Thomas is sending these, he’s trying to provoke you.”
“Why?”
“He may want you focused on the paternity question rather than Rachel.”
“Or he thinks he’s exposing something.”
“Possibly.”
Another email arrived.
This one contained no message.
Only an audio file.
Ruiz told me not to play it until she could copy it.
She connected my phone to her laptop.
Then we listened.
Thomas’s voice.
I had never heard him before, but he introduced himself.
“Daniel, I know you think I’m dangerous. Maybe I am. But Rachel is lying to the police, Michael is lying to you, and Sarah lied to everyone. There is one person who knows who Emma’s biological father is.”
A pause.
“Your mother.”
I stopped the recording.
“No.”
Ruiz looked at me.
“Play the rest.”
I did.
“Margaret knew before Emma was born. Ask her why Sarah stayed in her house for three nights when she was four months pregnant. Ask her why she paid a lawyer named Henry Collins. Ask her what document he prepared.”
The recording ended.
I stared toward the kitchen.
Mom was washing a coffee cup.
Normal.
Calm.
The woman who had been my anchor through all of this.
I walked toward her.
“Mom.”
She turned.
One look at my face and she knew.
“What?”
“Who is Henry Collins?”
The cup slipped from her hand.
May you like
It shattered in the sink.
And suddenly I had my answer before she even spoke.
