Chapter 2 - The Dead Man in the Photograph
For several seconds, nobody moved.
I heard only the quiet hum of the heating system and Fern making little noises against my shoulder.
I looked from Stellan to Dr. Mercer.
“What does that mean?”
The doctor removed his glasses.
“It means the genetic markers demonstrate a close biological relationship between Mr. Cross and your daughter.”
“How close?”
Dr. Mercer hesitated.
Stellan answered for him.
“Close enough that this isn’t coincidence.”
I tightened my arms around Fern.
“But he isn’t her father.”
“No,” Dr. Mercer said carefully. “The results exclude Mr. Cross as Fern’s biological father.”
Some tension left my body.
Only some.
“Then what?”
“The relationship is statistically consistent with an uncle and niece.”
I stared at him.
Stellan had become motionless.
I remembered the photograph.
Two brothers.
One dead three years ago.
One standing in front of me.
“But Evan wasn’t her father.”
“Correct.”
“That makes no sense.”
Stellan walked toward the window.
“It does if I had another brother.”
The words were so quiet I almost missed them.
I looked at him.
“Did you?”
He remained facing the skyline.
“Yes.”
Dr. Mercer lowered his gaze.
I felt suddenly cold.
“What was his name?”
Stellan didn’t answer.
“Mr. Cross?”
“Adrian.”
The name seemed to change the air.
“Adrian Cross.”
Fern touched my chin.
I barely noticed.
“Where is he?”
Stellan finally turned.
“Dead.”
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because somehow every answer made the situation worse.
“Of course.”
His expression sharpened.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means apparently every man connected to my daughter is dead.”
Dr. Mercer quietly began collecting his papers.
Stellan’s gaze softened a fraction.
“Selene.”
“How long ago?”
“Fourteen months.”
My breath vanished.
Exactly when Evan—the man I had loved—had supposedly died.
Stellan saw my reaction.
“What?”
I placed Fern into the stroller beside the desk because my arms suddenly felt weak.
“The man I knew as Evan died fourteen months ago.”
Stellan stepped closer.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
“Where?”
“Outside Milwaukee.”
“What date?”
“August seventeenth.”
His face went pale.
“Adrian Cross died August seventeenth.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Vehicle explosion outside Milwaukee.”
My knees gave out.
I sat heavily.
The room became distant.
The man I had called Evan.
The man who cooked pasta badly and left coffee cups everywhere.
The man who used to sing to Fern before she was born.
The man who died before ever holding his daughter.
He might never have been Evan Hart.
He might have been Adrian Cross.
Stellan’s brother.
“Why?” I whispered.
Nobody answered.
I looked at Stellan.
“Why would your brother pretend to be someone else?”
His mouth tightened.
“That is what I intend to discover.”
But the expression in his eyes told me something else.
He already had a theory.
And whatever it was, he didn’t want me to hear it.
Not yet.
That night, I did not return to my apartment.
Stellan insisted.
Someone who had stolen a dead Cross brother’s identity had spent nearly a year with me.
If that person had actually been Adrian, then the deception had existed for a reason.
Until Stellan understood the reason, he believed Fern and I were safer inside the estate.
I hated that he was probably right.
Mrs. Thornbury prepared two adjoining guest rooms.
One for me.
One converted quickly for Fern.
At midnight, I stood beside Fern’s crib watching her sleep.
The door was open.
A figure appeared.
Stellan.
He had removed his jacket and tie.
He looked less intimidating.
Not harmless.
Never harmless.
Just human.
“She sleeps deeply,” he said.
“Eventually.”
He entered.
I watched him look at Fern.
“Was Adrian good with children?”
Stellan’s face changed.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“We weren’t close at the end.”
“Why?”
He leaned against the doorway.
“Our family was complicated.”
“That’s an elegant way of saying nothing.”
A faint reaction crossed his face.
Almost amusement.
Almost.
“You always talk to your employer like this?”
“I didn’t know my employer might be my daughter’s uncle yesterday.”
“Fair.”
That single word startled me.
I studied him.
“What was Adrian like?”
Stellan looked toward Fern.
“Smart.”
“So was Evan.”
“Restless.”
“Yes.”
“Talked too much when he was nervous.”
I felt tears rise.
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t cook.”
I laughed unexpectedly.
The sound broke halfway out.
“He thought adding more garlic fixed everything.”
Stellan’s eyes closed briefly.
“Adrian did that.”
I covered my mouth.
For months after Evan died, I had wanted proof he had existed.
Anything.
A voice.
A smell.
A person who remembered him.
Now I had one.
But it came with another name.
“Why did you think Adrian died?”
Stellan opened his eyes.
“I saw the vehicle.”
“Not him?”
“No remains could be identified.”
“Then how did you know?”
“Dental records.”
My mind sharpened.
“Whose dental records?”
Silence.
Stellan frowned.
I stood.
“Did you personally verify them?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“My security chief.”
“Who?”
“Darius Kane.”
I remembered the name.
A quiet man who seemed to be everywhere inside the estate.
“And where is he now?”
Stellan’s face hardened.
“Still employed by me.”
For the first time, suspicion entered the room.
Neither of us said it aloud.
We didn’t need to.
Somebody had identified Adrian Cross as dead.
Somebody had allowed him to live under Evan Hart’s identity.
And somebody might have known about me.
About Fern.
Stellan straightened.
“Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To ask Darius a question.”
“At midnight?”
“He’ll be awake.”
“How do you know?”
Stellan looked at me.
“Because I pay him to be.”
He left.
I should have stayed with Fern.
Instead, curiosity overpowered good judgment.
I followed far enough behind that he wouldn’t hear me.
Stellan entered the west wing.
The mansion seemed different at night.
Darker.
Older.
He disappeared into a security room.
The door remained slightly open.
I stopped nearby.
Voices.
Stellan’s.
Then Darius’s.
“You verified Adrian’s records yourself?”
“Yes.”
“From what hospital?”
“St. Matthew’s.”
“That’s not what the file says.”
Silence.
Then Darius spoke.
“I can explain.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
Stellan’s voice became dangerously calm.
“Then explain.”
Another silence.
Longer.
Finally:
“The records came through a private clinic.”
“Which clinic?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You remember every license plate that enters my property.”
“That was fourteen months ago.”
“Who gave you the records?”
No answer.
Then I heard movement.
A chair.
Footsteps.
Stellan again.
“Darius.”
A lower voice replied.
“You don’t want the answer.”
I leaned closer.
And heard the sentence that changed the investigation completely.
“Your mother gave them to me.”
I froze.
Stellan’s mother.
I hadn’t even known she existed.
But from the silence inside that room, I understood something immediately.
Stellan Cross was afraid of almost nobody.
Whoever his mother was, she had just become the exception.
May you like
And somewhere inside that family was the reason my daughter had been born beneath a stolen name.
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