The unmarked sedan smelled of rain, disinfectant, and the stale coffee Morales had abandoned in the cup holder.
I sat in the back with Sarah.
Neither of us spoke.
Every few seconds, Sarah checked her phone even though there had been no new messages.
Beside me, Emma slept against the window.
Lily was in the front passenger seat with Dr. Patel, who had refused to let the child remain at the hospital without her.
The green-banded girl sat between us.
She had stopped asking questions.
That frightened me more than when she had been crying.
Morales drove fast without using the siren.
The address Mark had sent belonged to an industrial district on the edge of the city.
There were warehouses there, repair shops, storage yards, and old buildings with signs faded almost white by years of sun.
No medical facility appeared on the map.
Morales checked the address again.
“This number doesn't exist.”
Sarah leaned forward.
“That's where he said Ethan was.”
“I know.”
“Then we're in the right place.”
Morales didn't answer.
The rain had stopped.
Streetlights reflected across the wet pavement.
The closer we came, the quieter the streets became.
Then we saw the building.
Three stories.
No windows on the first floor.
A narrow sign above the entrance read NORTHSTAR STORAGE.
Morales slowed.
“That's not a medical facility.”
The green-banded girl stared at it.
“That isn't the name.”
“What is it called?” I asked.
She swallowed.
“House Seven.”
Morales looked at me.
“How do you know?”
“I don't.”
The girl pointed.
“There.”
Above the loading bay was a tiny painted number.
7.
Morales parked half a block away.
Two officers followed in another vehicle.
She gave them instructions.
No lights.
No sirens.
No unnecessary movement.
I stayed with Emma.
Sarah stayed with Lily.
Dr. Patel checked the green-banded girl's pulse.
Then the girl whispered something.
“They're moving him.”
“Who?”
“Ethan.”
Sarah grabbed her hand.
“Where?”
“Down.”
The girl pointed toward the pavement.
“Under us.”
Morales stopped.
“Basement?”
“No.”
The girl shook her head.
“Lower.”
The officers found the entrance through a maintenance corridor behind the building.
The door was locked.
Morales forced it.
A staircase descended.
The air became colder with every step.
At the bottom was another door.
This one had no handle.
Only a scanner.
The green-banded girl touched the panel.
The light turned green.
Morales stared.
“How did you do that?”
The child looked confused.
“I don't know.”
The door opened.
Beyond it was a corridor lined with white panels.
No windows.
No signs.
No cameras that we could see.
Yet I knew we were being watched.
Emma woke.
“Mom?”
I turned.
She rubbed her eyes.
“Where are we?”
“Stay close to me.”
She looked at the corridor.
“I don't like this.”
“Neither do I.”
We moved together.
The first room was empty.
The second contained medical equipment.
The third contained shelves.
Every shelf carried labeled containers.
Names.
Dates.
Numbers.
Sarah stopped walking.
One container had her name on it.
She reached toward it.
Morales caught her wrist.
“Don't touch.”
Sarah stared.
“What is that?”
“I don't know.”
Dr. Patel examined the label.
“Blood samples.”
Sarah's face drained.
“For what?”
Before anyone could answer, a speaker crackled.
“You shouldn't have come.”
Morales raised her weapon.
“Show yourself.”
A man's voice replied.
“You're already too late.”
Sarah stepped forward.
“Mark!”
“No.”
The voice was different.
Older.
Calmer.
“Mark isn't here.”
“Where is my son?”
“He's alive.”
“Where?”
“You came for him.”
Sarah's voice shook.
“Give him back.”
A door opened at the end of the corridor.
A hospital bed rolled into view.
A child lay beneath a blanket.
Sarah ran.
Morales grabbed her.
“Wait.”
The bed stopped.
A figure stood behind it.
Not Mark.
A woman in gray scrubs.
Dr. Sloan.
The same woman who had called me at the hospital.
She removed her mask.
“You were warned.”
I stared at her.
“You work here.”
“I did.”
“Did?”
“I stopped six months ago.”
Sarah pointed toward the bed.
“Is that Ethan?”
Dr. Sloan nodded.
“He's alive.”
Sarah began crying.
“Then let me take him.”
Dr. Sloan looked at me.
“You don't understand what this place was built to do.”
“Then explain it.”
She looked toward Emma.
“That is why you're here.”
I stepped in front of my daughter.
“No.”
Dr. Sloan didn't move.
“Emma is not a specimen.”
“I agree.”
“Then why does this place know her name?”
Dr. Sloan's expression changed.
“Because someone gave them access.”
I thought of Daniel.
“Who?”
She didn't answer.
Instead, she opened a file.
Inside was a photograph.
I recognized the room.
I recognized the woman.
And I recognized myself.
Only I was seventeen years old.
I had no memory of being there.
Sarah stared at the photograph.
“What is that?”
Dr. Sloan answered quietly.
“Your sister.”
I took the file.
My hands shook.
There were photographs of me at nineteen.
Twenty-two.
Twenty-seven.
Always asleep.
Always surrounded by equipment.
Always accompanied by the same symbol.
A black circle divided by three white lines.
Then I saw Emma.
A photograph taken shortly after her birth.
Her tiny wrist carried the same symbol.
I looked at Sarah.
She began crying.
“I didn't know.”
I believed her.
That was the worst part.
Then a door slammed somewhere below us.
Dr. Sloan looked toward the floor.
“They know we're here.”
Morales raised her weapon.
“Who?”
Dr. Sloan answered:
“Everyone.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: Dr. Sloan Finally Told Us What the Three Children Were Connected To, but Her Explanation Left One Question More Dangerous
The Small Detail My Daughter Noticed in the Locker Room Turned an Ordinary Weekend Into Something I Couldn’t Explain
Part 5 of 20
