Chapter 18 - THE SECOND CHILD
The Kingston library smelled of wet wool, decaying paper, and thirty years of forgotten municipal records.
Ethan stood over a microfiche reader in the basement archives, his hands stiff from cold. Claire was at her sister’s house two hours south, guarded by two off-duty sheriff’s deputies Ethan had hired out of his remaining savings. He refused to let Claire or Lily return to the house until he understood what was hunting them.
The spool of microfilm whirred softly as Ethan spun the wheel.
*Kingston Memorial Hospital — Maternity Ward Registry, July 1992.*
The blue-tinted screen flickered with scanned ledger pages written in fountain pen. He scrolled past the names of strangers until his eyes caught the surname: *Mercer, Evelyn.*
*Delivery Date: July 14, 1992.*
*Child A: Male. 6 lbs, 4 oz. Named: Ethan Thomas Mercer.*
*Child B: Male. 6 lbs, 1 oz. Named: Julian Richard Mercer.*
Ethan’s lungs seized. It was right there. Official. Sealed with the county registrar’s embossed seal. He hadn't entered the world alone. He had shared a womb with another human being.
He scrolled down to the discharge records.
*Discharge Date: July 17, 1992.*
*Child A: Discharged to mother (Evelyn Mercer).*
*Child B: Transferred to Saint Jude’s Children's Specialized Care Facility.*
*Reason for Transfer:* The ledger note was written in cramped, hurried medical shorthand. Ethan squinted at the screen, deciphering the fading script: *Congenital cardiac arrhythmia. Severe neurological agitation. Ward of private custodial agreement. Evelyn Mercer retaining exclusive guardianship.*
"Looking for the boy who wasn't supposed to exist?"
Ethan spun around so fast his hip slammed into the metal desk, sending a stack of legal pads tumbling across the tile floor.
A woman was standing at the end of the aisle. She wore an oversized olive-drab trench coat, her dark hair cut into a jagged, uneven bob that framed an angular, intensely pale face. She looked roughly Ethan's age—early thirties—with sharp, observant gray eyes that seemed to dissect everything they rested on.
She didn't look like an archivist. Her boots were scuffed leather, and her hands were shoved deep into her coat pockets.
"Who are you?" Ethan asked, his hand dropping instinctively toward his jacket pocket, where his pocketknife sat folded.
"I’m the person who watched your mother pay five thousand dollars in cash every month to keep Saint Jude’s mouth shut," she said. Her voice was level, almost devoid of emotion, but Ethan instantly recognized the timbre.
It was the voice from the baby monitor.
"You," Ethan hissed, taking a step forward, his knuckles whitening. "You hacked my house. You spoke to my daughter."
"I spoke to *you*, Ethan," she said, not flinching as he advanced. "Because if I had walked up to your front door, you would have drawn that Glock you keep in your nightstand safe and shot me before I could tell you why Evelyn spent thirty years pretending she only had one perfect golden boy."
"Step back," Ethan snarled, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "I’m calling Detective Miller right now."
"Call him," she said calmly, pulling a laminated identification card from her pocket and tossing it onto the microfiche table between them. "Tell him Special Investigator Sarah Vance from the State Department of Health is standing right here. Tell him she's been looking into the unlicensed psychiatric ward Evelyn Mercer funded in Orange County for the last six years."
Ethan glanced down at the badge. It was authentic. State seal, official photo, Department of Health and Human Services.
"You used the monitor to scare Claire? To terrorize a baby?"
"I used the monitor because two men were parked in an unmarked sedan outside your cul-de-sac last night," Sarah Vance said coldly. "And they weren't cops. They were using high-gain directional microphones pointed at your second-story nursery. If I hadn't tripped that camera's override and made you turn on the floodlights, one of them was already halfway up your trellis."
Ethan felt the floor drop out from beneath him. "What?"
"Julian didn't stay in Saint Jude's, Ethan," Sarah said, stepping closer. Her eyes were hard as granite. "Saint Jude's burned down in 2004. Evelyn took him out three months before the fire. She didn't institutionalize him because he was sick. She institutionalized him because she realized early on that she couldn't control two of you. One obedient son was enough for her little suburban kingdom. But Julian..."
She swallowed, a flicker of genuine dread breaking through her professional facade.
May you like
"Julian was the one she couldn't break. And now that she’s behind bars, Julian has come back to claim the family she stole from him."
***
