Ethan stared at the phone.
“Two months ago?”
Marcus confirmed it.
“The letter was dated six weeks before the baby was born.”
I felt a strange coldness settle over me.
Six weeks.
That was when Ethan had started changing.
When he became distracted.
When he stopped talking.
When his mother began making comments about our marriage.
When the first conversations about selling the house began.
The timing wasn't accidental.
I asked Marcus, “Did Samuel predict this?”
“No.”
“Then how did he know Victor would return?”
“He didn't know Victor would return.”
Marcus paused.
“He knew Victor would eventually discover Ethan's identity.”
Robert shook his head.
“Victor already knew.”
Ethan looked at him.
“How?”
“Your mother.”
Carol flinched.
“I never told him directly.”
“You gave him the records.”
“I was trying to stop him.”
“You gave him enough.”
Ethan stepped away.
“Stop.”
His voice was quiet.
Both parents fell silent.
“I need one person in this room to tell me the truth without protecting me.”
Nobody spoke.
Ethan looked at his father.
“Was I your son?”
Robert answered immediately.
“Yes.”
“Did you raise me as your son?”
“Yes.”
“Did you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Then that's enough.”
Robert's eyes filled.
Ethan turned toward his mother.
“But I will never forgive you for using my wife and daughter to clean up your mistakes.”
Carol lowered her head.
I didn't say anything.
There was no need.
My daughter began crying.
I lifted her from the bassinet.
Ethan came beside me.
She quieted when he touched her cheek.
For a moment, the room felt almost normal.
Then someone knocked on the front door.
Three slow knocks.
Everyone froze.
Robert looked toward the hallway.
“Who is that?”
Nobody answered.
Another knock.
Ethan moved toward the door.
I caught his arm.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
Robert whispered, “Stay here.”
He walked to the window instead.
The dark blue sedan was parked across the street.
Its headlights were off.
My heart began beating faster.
Marcus was still on the phone.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Someone is outside,” Ethan said.
Marcus went silent.
Then he said, “Don't open the door.”
Robert checked the window again.
“It's Victor.”
Carol stood.
“No.”
Robert looked at her.
“You recognize the car?”
She didn't answer.
I moved away from the front window.
“Call the police.”
Robert nodded.
He reached for his phone.
Then the lights went out.
The entire house fell dark.
Our daughter began crying.
I held her close.
Ethan whispered my name.
“I'm here.”
A sound came from the back of the house.
Not a knock.
A door opening.
Robert's face changed.
“The kitchen.”
He moved quickly.
Ethan followed.
I stayed with the baby.
Then I heard Robert shout.
“Who's there?”
Silence.
A second later, the back door slammed.
Footsteps crossed the porch.
Robert ran outside.
Ethan looked at me.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“Mara.”
“We stay together.”
He nodded.
We moved toward the hallway.
The rain had stopped.
The house was unnaturally quiet.
Then Robert returned.
He was holding an envelope.
“He left this.”
Ethan took it.
There was no name.
Only an address.
Our house.
And beneath it:
Ask Mara what happened the night she signed the hospital papers.*
I frowned.
“I never signed anything unusual.”
Carol looked at me.
“You did.”
“What?”
“The hospital paperwork.”
“I signed the standard forms.”
Carol shook her head.
“No.”
Ethan looked at her.
“What are you talking about?”
“The trustee's amendment.”
My stomach dropped.
“What amendment?”
Carol said, “The document recognizing your daughter as the beneficiary.”
I stared at her.
“I never saw it.”
“You signed it.”
“No.”
“I watched you.”
“When?”
“At the hospital.”
My mind raced.
The night after our daughter was born.
I had been exhausted.
A nurse had brought a stack of papers.
Insurance.
Birth registration.
Pediatric records.
Consent forms.
I remembered signing dozens.
But not a trust document.
I looked at Robert.
“Was the trustee there?”
“No.”
“Then how could I sign anything?”
Carol's face changed.
“I don't know.”
Ethan opened the envelope.
Inside was a photocopy.
My signature.
At the bottom was a declaration transferring certain rights to a company controlled by Victor Hale.
My blood ran cold.
“I didn't sign this.”
Robert examined it.
“The signature is yours.”
“It was copied.”
Ethan looked at the date.
“That was the night our daughter was born.”
Marcus spoke through the phone.
“Send me a picture.”
Ethan did.
Marcus responded almost immediately.
“This is fake.”
“How do you know?”
“The notary stamp.”
Robert leaned closer.
Marcus continued.
“The notary listed on this document died three years ago.”
Everyone went silent.
I looked at Carol.
She looked horrified.
“So someone forged my signature and used a dead notary.”
Marcus said, “Yes.”
Ethan asked, “Why send it now?”
“Because they're telling us they know we found the ledger.”
I looked at the front window.
The sedan was gone.
Then my phone buzzed.
Another unknown number.
A message appeared.
You have until sunrise to bring the original trust papers to the old Hale warehouse.*
Ethan read it over my shoulder.
Robert shook his head.
“We're not going.”
Marcus said, “Don't.”
I looked at my daughter.
Then at Ethan.
“We don't have to go.”
Ethan nodded.
“We call the police.”
I reached for my phone.
Before I could dial, another message arrived.
This one contained a photograph.
Our daughter's crib.
Taken inside the nursery.
I stopped breathing.
Someone had been inside our house.
Recently.
The message beneath the photograph contained only one sentence.
Sunrise is closer than you think.*
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: The Photograph From the Nursery Proved the Threat Was Already Inside Our Home, and We Had to Decide Whom We Could Still Trust
At Half Past Four, the Front Door Opened, and One Look From My Husband Told Me the Night Was About to Change Everything
Part 11 of 24
