PART 4: THE FIRST NATHAN
I stared at the photograph until the boy’s face seemed to move beneath my trembling fingers.
Nathan must never learn he was not the first Nathan.
Rebecca stood beside me, pale and shaking.
Outside the locked office, Mercer had stopped pounding on the door.
That frightened me more than the pounding had.
“Mom,” I whispered into the phone. “Who is this boy?”
Margaret didn’t answer.
“Mom.”
“I need you to leave that police station.”
“No.”
“Nathan, please.”
“Who is the boy?”
Her voice broke.
“His name was Nathan Brooks.”
My stomach turned.
“That’s my name.”
“I know.”
“How old was he?”
“Seven when that photograph was taken.”
“And when did he die?”
Silence.
Rebecca slowly looked at me.
I had guessed correctly.
Margaret whispered, “He was nine.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“When?”
“Three years before you were born.”
I laughed once because my brain refused to accept what I was hearing.
“That’s impossible.”
“I wish it were.”
“You had another son named Nathan?”
“Yes.”
“And after he died, you had me and gave me his name?”
Margaret started crying.
“It wasn’t that simple.”
“It sounds pretty simple.”
“No. Henry made sure nothing about our lives was simple after that.”
Rebecca touched my arm.
I pulled away without meaning to.
My entire childhood suddenly felt contaminated.
Every birthday card.
Every photograph.
Every time my father had called me “champ.”
Every time my mother had looked at me strangely when she thought I wasn’t watching.
Had she been seeing me?
Or him?
“How did the first Nathan die?”
Margaret whispered, “He drowned.”
My eyes dropped to the photograph.
The boy was standing beside a lake.
My skin prickled.
“What lake?”
“Holloway Lake.”
Rebecca inhaled sharply.
The same lake from Claire’s photograph.
“Why were you connected to Dr. Holloway?”
Margaret’s crying stopped.
When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.
“Because your father believed grief could be cured.”
“What does that mean?”
“After Nathan died, Henry changed.”
“He became obsessed?”
“Yes.”
“With Holloway?”
“Yes.”
“What did Holloway promise him?”
My mother hesitated.
Then she said the sentence that made Rebecca grip the desk.
“He promised your father that losing a child didn’t have to be permanent.”
I felt sick.
“You can’t bring someone back from the dead.”
“No.”
Margaret’s voice cracked.
“But you can make grieving parents believe they recognize someone else.”
I stared at the documents scattered across the desk.
Memory.
Identity.
Suggestibility.
Subject pairing.
Suddenly the pieces began fitting together in a way I desperately didn’t want them to.
“Mom… am I adopted?”
“No.”
“Then what am I?”
“You are my son.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“You are my biological son, Nathan.”
I closed my eyes.
Relief came for half a second.
Then another question replaced it.
“Why did Dad write that I wasn’t the first Nathan?”
“Because he never accepted that you were different.”
The words hurt more than I expected.
Margaret continued.
“When you were born, Henry insisted on naming you Nathan.”
“You agreed?”
“I was grieving. I was frightened. Your father told me it would help us heal.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
She paused.
“It made Henry worse.”
“How?”
“He started comparing you.”
“To a dead child?”
“Everything. The way you slept. The foods you liked. The age you started walking. He kept journals.”
A memory flashed through my mind.
My father making me throw a baseball again and again because I was “holding it wrong.”
I had been six.
Another memory.
My father becoming furious because I refused to eat strawberry ice cream.
“You always loved strawberry,” he had said.
Except I hadn’t.
Maybe the first Nathan had.
My chest tightened.
“Dad was trying to turn me into him.”
“Yes.”
“And Holloway helped.”
“At first, Holloway told Henry it was unhealthy.”
That surprised me.
“Then what changed?”
“Money.”
Of course.
“Your father began financing Holloway’s research.”
Rebecca stared at Subject 7 written across her photographs.
Margaret continued.
“Holloway believed identity was more fragile than people understood. He believed that if you controlled someone’s memories, environment, relationships, and emotional attachments, you could rebuild who they believed themselves to be.”
Rebecca whispered, “Oh my God.”
Margaret heard her.
“Is Rebecca there?”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
“Mom, who is she?”
Margaret began crying again.
“I don’t know.”
Rebecca recoiled as if she had been slapped.
“You knew her.”
“I knew a child who looked like her.”
“What does that mean?”
“Holloway brought three girls to the lake house.”
“Claire, Rachel and Rebecca?”
“We never knew their real names.”
I stared at the three birth certificates.
“These are fake?”
“Probably.”
“Why three girls?”
“Holloway called them mirrors.”
Rebecca’s fingers tightened around the desk.
“Mirrors?”
“He believed identity could be transferred socially.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It meant he wanted to see whether three children who looked nearly identical could be raised with overlapping memories until even they became uncertain which experiences belonged to whom.”
A chill ran through me.
“They weren’t triplets?”
“No.”
“Then why did they look identical?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you said Rebecca remembered you as her mother.”
Margaret went silent.
“Mom.”
“I participated.”
Rebecca stopped breathing.
“In what?”
“I was supposed to spend time with one of the girls.”
“Why?”
“Holloway wanted each child to form attachments to different adults.”
Rebecca whispered, “You pretended to be my mother?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You pretended to be my mother?”
Rebecca shouted it this time.
Margaret sobbed.
“I thought it was therapy.”
“For a six-year-old?”
“They told us the girls had experienced severe trauma.”
“You let a child call you Mom?”
“I was grieving too.”
Rebecca stepped away from the phone.
Her face hardened.
For the first time since this nightmare began, she didn’t look frightened.
She looked furious.
“How long?”
Margaret whispered, “Nine months.”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
“And then?”
“Holloway ended the program.”
“Why?”
“Because something happened at the lake.”
The first Nathan.
My stomach dropped.
“My brother drowned.”
“Yes.”
“Was it an accident?”
Margaret didn’t answer.
“Mom?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve had decades to know.”
“I saw him go into the water.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Who was with him?”
“One of the girls.”
Rebecca opened her eyes.
“Which one?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
“Because by then Holloway had started dressing them alike.”
The room went silent.
“Why?”
“To test recognition.”
I wanted to throw the phone against the wall.
Instead I asked, “What happened?”
“The children were playing near the dock. I heard screaming. When I reached the lake, Nathan was in the water.”
“And the girl?”
“Standing on the dock.”
“Did she push him?”
“She said no.”
“Did you believe her?”
“I didn’t know what to believe.”
“What did Dad believe?”
Margaret’s answer came immediately.
“He blamed her.”
“Which girl?”
“He thought it was Claire.”
Rebecca whispered, “But nobody knew which one was Claire.”
“Exactly.”
Outside the office, something scraped against the door.
Rebecca and I froze.
Someone was there.
Listening.
I lowered my voice.
“What happened to the girls afterward?”
“They disappeared.”
“All three?”
“Yes.”
“And Holloway?”
“He shut down the program.”
“Until 2011.”
Margaret stopped.
I knew from her silence that I had hit something important.
“What happened in 2011?”
“Nathan, leave the station.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Tell me!”
My mother finally whispered:
“Henry found one of the girls.”
Rebecca’s face drained of color.
“Which one?”
“He thought she was Claire.”
“The woman who disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“And Dad went to Ohio?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted her to remember what happened to our first son.”
Everything clicked.
Claire’s disappearance.
My father’s trips to Cleveland.
Mercer finding a terrified woman covered in blood.
“Dad was involved.”
“I don’t know how much.”
“You’ve lied to me my entire life.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
My mother’s voice became almost inaudible.
“From Henry.”
The office door suddenly shook.
Rebecca jumped.
Someone was trying the handle.
I grabbed Mercer’s gun from where I had tucked it into my waistband after tackling him.
“Nathan?” Margaret said.
“Someone’s outside.”
“Then listen to me.”
The handle moved again.
“Do not let Thomas Mercer near that lockbox.”
“Why?”
“Because Thomas Mercer wasn’t a deputy who accidentally stumbled into Holloway’s research.”
My blood turned cold.
“What was he?”
“He was one of Holloway’s assistants.”
I looked toward the door.
Mercer had lied again.
“How do you know?”
“Because I hired him.”
I almost dropped the phone.
“You what?”
“After Henry became obsessed, I needed someone inside the program. Mercer was young. He needed money. I paid him to tell me what Henry and Holloway were doing.”
“Mercer worked for you?”
“At first.”
“What changed?”
“He started working for Henry.”
The handle stopped moving.
Silence.
Then Mercer’s voice came through the door.
“Your mother is lying.”
I raised the gun.
Rebecca whispered, “Don’t open it.”
Mercer continued.
“Ask Margaret why Henry died.”
My entire body went still.
My father had died nine years earlier.
Heart attack.
At least that was what I had always believed.
“Mom?”
Margaret said nothing.
“Dad had a heart attack.”
Mercer laughed softly from the hallway.
“No, Nathan.”
My throat tightened.
“What happened?”
Mercer answered through the door.
“Your father was poisoned.”
Rebecca covered her mouth.
I stared at the phone.
“Mom?”
Margaret whispered, “Henry was dangerous.”
My knees weakened.
“You killed him?”
“I stopped him.”
“Answer me.”
“He was going to take you.”
“Take me where?”
“Back to Holloway.”
“Why?”
“Because the experiment had failed.”
“What experiment?”
“The one involving you and Rebecca.”
I looked at my wife.
Her face was white.
“Mom, I didn’t meet Rebecca until after Dad died.”
Margaret said nothing.
And that silence was worse than any answer.
“No.”
Rebecca whispered, “Nathan…”
“No.”
I looked at the photographs.
Subject 7.
Pictures of me before we met.
The bookstore.
The apartment.
The pairing protocol.
“You knew Rebecca before I did?”
Margaret whispered, “You met her when you were seven.”
My heart stopped.
Rebecca grabbed the edge of the desk.
“What?”
“At Holloway Lake.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The first Nathan was there.
But maybe I had been there too.
“Mom, I wasn’t born yet when that photograph was taken.”
“You were.”
My brain refused to process the sentence.
“You told me the first Nathan died three years before I was born.”
“I lied.”
Everything inside me went silent.
“How old am I?”
Margaret began sobbing.
“Mom.”
“You’re thirty-nine.”
“I’m thirty-six.”
“No.”
My hand started trembling.
“Then where are the first three years of my life?”
“Holloway.”
One word.
One impossible word.
Rebecca stared at me.
“What did they do to him?”
Margaret’s voice broke.
“They made everyone forget which boy survived.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“There were two boys?”
“Yes.”
“Brothers?”
“Yes.”
“Twins?”
“Yes.”
My knees hit the chair.
Margaret continued crying.
“You and Nathan were identical twins.”
I looked at the photograph.
The boy beside my father wasn’t a dead older brother.
He was my twin.
“We were both named Nathan?”
“No.”
“What was my name?”
“Ethan.”
The room disappeared around me.
My name was Ethan.
“Nathan died at the lake,” Margaret whispered. “You survived.”
I couldn’t speak.
“But Henry couldn’t accept losing Nathan. He always favored him. Nathan was outgoing. Athletic. Everything Henry wanted.”
My childhood memories came rushing back.
Throw the ball again.
You used to love strawberries.
You were never afraid of water.
Not memories of me.
Expectations of someone else.
“Dad turned Ethan into Nathan.”
“Yes.”
“And you let him.”
“I tried to stop it.”
“You let him erase my name.”
“I was afraid he would take you away.”
“He already did.”
Rebecca reached for my hand.
This time, I let her hold it.
Outside, Mercer said:
“Nathan—or Ethan—your mother is still hiding the most important part.”
“Shut up!”
“Ask her who pulled your brother from the lake.”
I looked at the phone.
“Who?”
Margaret’s breathing became uneven.
“Mom, who saved me?”
“You weren’t in the water.”
“What?”
“You were on the dock.”
The words hit me slowly.
Then horribly.
“If I was on the dock…”
Margaret began crying harder.
“Who was in the lake?”
“Your brother.”
“Who pulled him out?”
“One of the girls.”
Rebecca stared at me.
“Which girl?”
“I don’t know.”
Mercer laughed again.
“Yes, you do, Margaret.”
“Thomas, stop.”
“Tell him.”
“Stop!”
“Tell him why Rebecca was selected for him twenty-six years later.”
My heart pounded.
“Mom?”
Margaret screamed into the phone:
“Because Henry believed she was the girl who let Nathan drown!”
Rebecca stumbled backward.
“No.”
“He wanted revenge,” Margaret continued. “But Holloway convinced him revenge was wasteful.”
“Wasteful?”
“Holloway wanted to use her.”
“For what?”
“To rebuild the family Henry thought he had lost.”
I stared at Rebecca.
My father hadn’t arranged my marriage because he loved me.
He had arranged it because Rebecca fit some sick design created decades earlier.
“Why me?”
“Because Henry believed if he could turn Ethan into Nathan, Holloway could turn that girl into whoever Nathan would have grown up to marry.”
Rebecca shook her head violently.
“No. No.”
Her entire adult identity had been manufactured.
Maybe mine had too.
Suddenly the office lights came back on.
The alarm stopped.
The silence was immediate and terrifying.
Then someone knocked three times.
Not Mercer.
A woman’s voice said:
“Ethan.”
I froze.
Nobody had called me that in my memory.
Yet hearing it did something to me.
A flash exploded behind my eyes.
A dock.
Sunlight.
A little girl screaming.
A boy in the water.
And my own small hands covered in blood.
I dropped the phone.
Rebecca caught me.
“Nathan!”
Another memory.
A girl kneeling beside me.
“Ethan, look at me.”
Same face as Rebecca.
But younger.
Another flash.
My brother screaming:
“Don’t let Dad know!”
Then water.
Then darkness.
I opened my eyes.
“I remember.”
Rebecca stared at me.
“What?”
“I was there.”
The woman outside knocked again.
“Ethan, open the door.”
Mercer shouted from farther down the hallway.
“Don’t!”
The woman answered:
“You’ve been lying to him for fifteen years, Thomas.”
I moved toward the door.
Rebecca grabbed me.
“Wait.”
“Whoever she is, she knows my real name.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s safe.”
She was right.
So instead of opening the door, I asked:
“What happened at the lake?”
The woman answered immediately.
“Your brother didn’t drown by accident.”
My chest tightened.
“Who killed him?”
Silence.
Then:
“You did.”
I stopped breathing.
Rebecca whispered, “No.”
The woman continued.
“You pushed Nathan into the lake.”
My legs weakened.
“That’s a lie.”
“You were seven.”
“Why would I kill my brother?”
“Because you were trying to save the girl standing beside you.”
Another memory hit.
Nathan pulling a little girl’s hair.
Her screaming.
My brother laughing.
Then my father approaching from the house.
The girl begging me:
“Please don’t let him take me downstairs again.”
Downstairs.
A locked door.
Bright lights.
Dr. Holloway.
My father.
Children crying.
I grabbed my head.
“I pushed him.”
Rebecca held me.
“You were a child.”
“He fell into the water.”
The woman outside said:
“And Claire jumped in after him.”
I stared at the door.
“She tried to save him?”
“Yes.”
“Did she?”
“No.”
A long silence.
“Then why did my father blame her?”
“Because admitting what happened would destroy his perfect replacement.”
Me.
My father erased the truth to protect the child he intended to turn into Nathan.
My phone rang from the floor.
Margaret.
I picked it up.
“Is that Claire outside?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do not open the door.”
“Why?”
“Because Claire is dead.”
The woman outside heard her.
“No, Margaret.”
My mother gasped.
The woman continued:
“You watched Samuel bury the wrong girl.”
My skin went cold.
“What does that mean?”
The woman outside said:
“Open the lockbox again.”
Rebecca returned to the desk.
We searched through the remaining documents.
At the bottom was an old cassette labeled OCTOBER 8, 2011.
Rebecca found a small recorder beneath the false panel.
The batteries were corroded.
But there was a power cord.
She plugged it in.
Mercer began pounding on the door again.
“Do not play that tape!”
I pressed PLAY.
Static filled the room.
Then my father’s voice.
“State your name.”
A woman answered.
“Claire Holloway.”
My father said:
“Wrong.”
A slap.
Rebecca flinched.
Again my father:
“State your name.”
“Claire Holloway.”
“Wrong.”
Another slap.
Then Dr. Holloway’s voice.
“Henry, stop. She isn’t responding to the conditioning.”
My father shouted:
“Because you brought me the wrong one!”
Rebecca covered her mouth.
The recording continued.
Holloway said:
“They’re identical. We need verification.”
Then another voice entered the room.
Thomas Mercer.
Young, but unmistakable.
“I ran the fingerprints.”
The Mercer outside our door went silent.
On the tape, my father asked:
“And?”
Mercer answered:
“This isn’t Claire.”
My heart pounded.
“Who is she?” Holloway asked.
Mercer replied:
“Rachel.”
The woman on the recording began screaming.
“No! My name is Claire!”
Then chaos.
A crash.
Someone shouting.
A gunshot.
The tape went silent for several seconds.
Then Mercer’s voice whispered:
“Oh God.”
My father said:
“Is she dead?”
Mercer answered:
“Yes.”
Rebecca gripped my arm.
Margaret was still on the phone.
She was sobbing.
The tape continued.
Holloway said:
“We need to fix this.”
My father:
“How?”
Holloway:
“Claire is already officially missing.”
My blood froze.
Holloway continued:
“So Rachel becomes Claire.”
The tape clicked off.
Nobody spoke.
Finally, the woman outside said:
“Now you understand.”
I approached the door.
“If Rachel died that night…”
“Yes.”
“And authorities believed Claire disappeared…”
“Yes.”
“Then who are you?”
The woman answered:
“I’m Claire.”
Rebecca whispered, “Then who am I?”
Claire went silent.
For the first time, she seemed reluctant to answer.
Rebecca stepped toward the door.
“WHO AM I?”
Claire finally whispered:
“You’re the reason I came back.”
“What does that mean?”
“Because I thought you were dead.”
Rebecca’s face crumpled.
“You know me?”
“Yes.”
“From the program?”
“No.”
“Then from where?”
Claire’s voice broke.
“Before Holloway.”
Rebecca pressed both hands against the door.
“Tell me.”
“You weren’t Subject 7 when you were born.”
“Then what was my name?”
Claire whispered:
“Emily Vale.”
Rebecca began crying.
“Who were my parents?”
“David and Laura Vale.”
“Where are they?”
Claire didn’t answer.
Rebecca’s voice cracked.
“Where are my parents?”
“They died when you were four.”
“How?”
“A house fire.”
“And Holloway took me?”
“He bought you.”
The room went silent.
“What?”
“He paid the person who had temporary custody of you.”
Rebecca slid down against the door.
Claire continued:
“You became the first child in his identity program who had no biological connection to him.”
“Why did I look like you?”
“You didn’t.”
I frowned.
Rebecca looked up.
“What?”
Claire said:
“Not originally.”
Even Mercer stopped moving outside.
Rebecca whispered:
“What did he do to me?”
“Hair. Dental work. Small surgeries over the years.”
Rebecca touched her face.
“No.”
“He didn’t make you identical. Not completely. But close enough that after years of conditioning, photographs, mannerisms and cosmetic procedures, people saw what they expected to see.”
That explained why facial recognition had flagged her.
Not science fiction.
Just decades of calculated manipulation.
Rebecca began shaking.
“And the woman in the picture who looks like me?”
“Me.”
“The woman who tied someone to our couch?”
“That photograph was staged.”
I froze.
“What?”
Claire continued:
“The woman tied to your couch isn’t Rebecca.”
Rebecca stood.
“Then who is she?”
Claire answered:
“Someone Mercer has been hiding for fifteen years.”
Mercer suddenly ran.
His footsteps thundered down the corridor.
Claire shouted:
“Stop him!”
I unlocked the door.
Claire stood there.
Same general face as Rebecca, but now that I knew what to look for, the differences were obvious.
Older eyes.
Different jaw.
A scar near her ear.
She wasn’t Rebecca’s twin.
She was the woman Rebecca had been altered to resemble.
Claire ran after Mercer.
I followed.
Rebecca came behind me.
We reached the stairwell just as Mercer disappeared downstairs.
Claire stopped.
“He’s going for the evidence room.”
“What’s there?”
“The original Holloway files.”
“How do you know?”
“I put them there.”
I stared at her.
“You?”
“I’ve been feeding Mercer pieces for eight years.”
“Why?”
“To make him reopen the case.”
“Why not go to police yourself?”
“Because the last time I trusted police, Mercer helped kill Rachel.”
We rushed downstairs.
The evidence-room door was open.
Mercer was inside.
He held a pistol in one hand.
A metal case in the other.
“Stop!” Claire shouted.
Mercer turned.
His face looked completely different now.
No fear.
No confusion.
Just exhaustion.
“You should have stayed dead, Claire.”
“You should have told the truth.”
“I tried.”
“You helped them bury Rachel.”
“I was twenty-four!”
“You were old enough to know murder was wrong.”
Mercer raised the gun.
I stepped between them.
“Put it down.”
“Nathan, move.”
“My name is Ethan.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
“Fine. Ethan. Move.”
“What’s in the case?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
Claire laughed bitterly.
“That case is the reason Henry Brooks was killed.”
I looked at my mother’s name still glowing on my phone.
“What’s inside?”
Mercer tightened his grip.
“Proof.”
“Of what?”
He looked at Rebecca.
“Of who funded Project Second Life.”
“My father?”
Mercer shook his head.
“Henry was rich enough to keep Holloway comfortable.”
“Then who?”
Mercer stared at me.
“Your father wasn’t running the project.”
“Who was?”
Before he could answer, a gunshot exploded.
Mercer dropped.
Rebecca screamed.
Blood spread across his shoulder.
Behind him stood a uniformed officer.
The same officer who had escorted us downstairs earlier.
He held a smoking gun.
“Everybody stay where you are.”
Claire’s face changed.
She recognized him.
“You.”
The officer smiled.
Then I recognized him too.
The scar near his jaw.
The gray hair.
The man who had pulled Rebecca over.
Except now he wore a different uniform.
“You’re the trooper.”
He smiled.
“No.”
Rebecca stepped backward.
“You stopped us.”
“Yes.”
“You told Nathan not to go home.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I needed him to call Mercer.”
I finally understood.
The traffic stop hadn’t been luck.
It had been arranged.
“You started all of this.”
“I opened the door.”
“Who are you?”
Claire whispered:
“Daniel.”
My head snapped toward her.
“Daniel Voss?”
Claire’s former fiancé.
The man whose remains had supposedly been discovered fifteen years ago.
The officer smiled.
“Hello, Claire.”
She looked like she had seen a ghost.
“You’re dead.”
“So were you.”
Mercer groaned on the floor.
Daniel kicked his gun away.
I stared at him.
“Whose body did they find in West Virginia?”
Daniel’s smile disappeared.
“A man Holloway decided nobody would miss.”
My stomach turned.
“You let everyone believe you were dead?”
“I had to.”
“Why come back now?”
Daniel looked at Rebecca.
“Because Project Second Life never ended.”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Holloway is dead.”
Daniel’s expression changed.
“No.”
Claire whispered, “Samuel died twelve years ago.”
Daniel looked at her.
“That’s what he wanted you to believe.”
A terrible silence followed.
Then Daniel placed his hand on the metal case Mercer had dropped.
“Samuel Holloway is alive.”
Rebecca grabbed my hand.
“Where?”
Daniel looked at me.
Then he said:
“Closer than you think.”
My phone rang.
Margaret again.
I answered.
“Mom?”
She was whispering.
“Nathan… someone is in the house.”
My blood froze.
“What?”
“I heard the back door.”
“Lock yourself in a room.”
“I did.”
“Call the police.”
“I tried.”
Her voice trembled.
“The line keeps dropping.”
Then I heard something through her phone.
Three knocks.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Margaret stopped breathing.
A man’s voice came from the other side of her bedroom door.
“Margaret.”
Her phone slipped slightly.
“Oh God.”
“Mom, who is that?”
She whispered:
“Samuel.”
The man outside her room spoke again.
“You kept my son from me long enough.”
I froze.
My mother began sobbing.
“Mom?”
Samuel’s voice came through clearly.
“Tell Ethan the truth.”
“What truth?”
Margaret cried:
“No.”
Samuel laughed softly.
“Tell him why Henry chose him.”
“I won’t.”
“Tell him who his biological father is.”
Everything inside me stopped.
I looked at Daniel.
At Claire.
At Rebecca.
At Mercer bleeding on the floor.
“Mom.”
My voice barely worked.
“Henry Brooks was my father.”
Margaret sobbed.
Samuel answered for her.
“No, Ethan.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Then Dr. Samuel Holloway said the words that shattered the last piece of my childhood.
“Henry Brooks raised you.”
A pause.
“But I am your father.”
The call ended.
I stared at the dark screen.
Rebecca whispered my real name.
“Ethan…”
But another sound came from the phone.
A notification.
One final message from my mother.
A photograph.
It showed Samuel Holloway standing beside her bedroom door.
Older now.
White-haired.
Thin.
But unmistakably alive.
And beside him stood my mother.
She wasn’t being held hostage anymore.
She was smiling.
Under the photograph, Margaret had written:
I’m sorry. This was the only way to bring everyone back together.
My hands went numb.
Then a second message appeared.
COME TO HOLLOWAY LAKE.
MIDNIGHT.
Daniel looked over my shoulder.
His face went pale.
Claire whispered:
“No.”
Rebecca squeezed my hand.
“What?”
Claire stared at the photograph.
“Look behind them.”
I enlarged it.
There was someone standing in the hallway behind Samuel and my mother.
A man.
About my age.
Same eyes.
Same nose.
Same face.
My face.
I couldn’t move.
“That’s impossible.”
Claire began crying.
Daniel whispered:
“They lied about the lake.”
I stared at him.
“About what?”
He pointed at the man in the photograph.
“The boy who fell into the water survived.”
My heart stopped.
Rebecca covered her mouth.
I looked again at the stranger wearing my face.
The brother I had spent my entire life believing was dead.
Daniel’s next words turned every answer we had found into another lie.
“Ethan, if that man is who I think he is…”
He swallowed.
“…then we still don’t know which one of you is Nathan.”……………..
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