The road to the old house felt longer than it should have.
Rain had started by the time we left the apartment, thin drops streaking across the windshield and turning the city lights into pale smears. No one spoke much. Mariana sat in the back with her laptop open, checking the files we had recovered from the pendant. Adrian drove with both hands locked around the steering wheel.
I sat beside him, watching the road.
For the first time since I had learned his secrets, I didn't know whether I wanted him beside me.
But I knew I needed him there.
The address led us farther from the city, toward a neighborhood of older houses where the streets narrowed and the trees grew thick over the sidewalks. The place had once been familiar to me.
Not because I remembered living there.
Because some part of me remembered being there.
We stopped outside a weathered two-story house with peeling white paint and a porch that sagged slightly in the middle.
I stared at it.
“I've seen this place.”
Adrian looked at me.
“Where?”
“In dreams.”
The words sounded foolish, but I couldn't take them back.
Mariana stepped out of the car.
The front door was locked.
Adrian tried the handle.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a small brass plate beside the door.
There were three numbers engraved on it.
317.
The same number followed us everywhere.
I reached beneath my shirt and pulled out the key.
It fit.
The lock turned immediately.
Inside, the air smelled of dust, old wood, and something faintly floral.
The house was empty.
But not abandoned.
Someone had cleaned it recently.
There were no cobwebs in the hallway. The furniture had been covered carefully. A vase sat on the table with dried flowers inside.
Mariana closed the door behind us.
“Someone has been maintaining this place.”
I didn't answer.
I was staring at the staircase.
My feet moved before I decided to follow.
I climbed slowly.
At the top was a narrow hallway.
Three doors.
The first opened into an empty bedroom.
The second contained boxes.
The third was locked.
Again, the key worked.
Inside was a child's room.
I stopped breathing.
The walls were pale yellow.
There was a small wooden bed.
A faded rug.
A shelf with children's books.
And above the bed, someone had painted one word.
*LENA.**
I walked inside.
My hand trembled as I touched the letters.
“This was mine.”
No one corrected me.
Because there was no other explanation.
On the wall were photographs.
Hundreds of them.
Some showed me as a baby.
Others showed me at five, seven, ten, twelve.
There were pictures of school events.
Birthday parties.
A bicycle accident.
My first day of high school.
Someone had watched my life from a distance.
But there were no photographs of my mother.
Only me.
Then I noticed the mirror.
A small crack ran across its lower corner.
I remembered it.
Not clearly.
A flash.
A woman kneeling in front of me.
Hands on my shoulders.
A voice saying, “Never tell anyone your real name.”
I stepped back.
Adrian reached for me.
I pulled away.
“Don't.”
He stopped.
The room became very quiet.
“You knew about this.”
“I knew the house existed.”
“You knew this room existed.”
“Yes.”
My anger rose slowly.
“You knew I had been here.”
“I knew your father had brought you here.”
“And you still married me without telling me.”
“I didn't know everything.”
“You knew enough.”
He looked down.
“I was trying to find out who was watching you.”
I laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“You had years.”
“I know.”
“You had every opportunity.”
“I know.”
Mariana interrupted.
“There’s something under the floor.”
She had noticed a loose board beside the bed.
Together, we lifted it.
Underneath was a metal container.
Inside were documents wrapped in plastic.
The first page was a birth certificate.
My birth name was printed clearly.
*Elena Marisol Lewis.**
Mother: Marisol Vega Lewis.
Father: Daniel Lewis.
Date of birth: exactly seven months before the date I had always celebrated.
I stared at it.
“Why did they change my birthday?”
Mariana examined the paper.
“They didn't.”
She compared it with another document.
“The date on your current records was altered.”
I felt sick.
My entire identity had been constructed around a lie.
Then I saw the final document.
It was a handwritten statement from my mother.
She explained that she had changed my identity because Northstar had begun searching for children connected to witnesses. She believed they would never look for Elena Lewis if they believed Elena had died.
But there was one person she trusted to keep me safe.
Cameron.
Not Cameron Lewis.
Cameron Vega.
Her younger brother.
My uncle.
The name that had haunted our investigation was finally attached to a real person.
My mother's brother had been protecting me.
Until he disappeared.
I looked at Adrian.
“Where is he?”
“I don't know.”
Mariana pointed toward the document.
There was an address written underneath Cameron's name.
Not a home.
A rehabilitation center.
A town several hours away.
We were about to leave when something struck the window.
All three of us turned.
A stone lay on the floor.
Wrapped around it was a strip of paper.
Mariana picked it up.
Only one sentence had been written.
*Cameron isn't the person you need to find.**
My heart sank.
Then another stone hit the window.
This time the note said:
*Ask Adrian what happened the night your father died.**
I turned slowly.
Adrian's face had gone white.
“Tell me.”
He said nothing.
“Adrian.”
He looked at me.
“I was there.”
The words came quietly.
“I was there the night Daniel died.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: The Night Adrian Lied About
I Thought My Husband Was Planning a Baby Shower Speech Until One Message Made Me Question Everything I Knew About Him
Part 13 of 20
