PART 5

THE ROOM MY FATHER SWEAR NEVER EXISTED

The old Collins house looked smaller than I remembered.

Or maybe I was simply bigger now.

Bigger than the frightened girl who had once stood at the bottom of the staircase and listened to adults whisper behind closed doors.

Bigger than the daughter who had spent thirty-four years believing every explanation her parents gave her.

Bigger than the woman who had driven away on Christmas morning with a two-dollar piggy bank and a broken heart.

I pulled the car to the curb.

The house was dark.

Too dark.

No porch light.

No Christmas decorations.

No movement behind the windows.

Lucy sat beside me, staring at the building.

“This is where you grew up?”

“Yes.”

She looked at the house for another few seconds.

“Then you really don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

“The basement.”

I looked at her.

“I remember a basement.”

“No.”

Her voice was quiet.

“You remember the stairs.”

I frowned.

“What’s the difference?”

“The stairs were what they wanted you to remember.”

I felt a chill move through me.

“What does that mean?”

Lucy didn’t answer.

She opened the passenger door.

“Come on.”

I followed.

We walked around the side of the house.

The back door was locked.

Lucy reached beneath an old flowerpot.

She pulled out a key.

I stared.

“You’ve been here before.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Years ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wasn’t sure I could trust you.”

That hurt.

Even though I understood.

“Fair.”

She looked at me.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

I turned the key.

The lock clicked.

We entered.

The house smelled exactly as I remembered.

Dust.

Old wood.

And something faintly sweet from the kitchen.

For a second, I was eight years old again.

Then twelve.

Then seventeen.

Then twenty-five.

Every version of me seemed to exist inside those walls.

I walked through the living room.

The furniture was gone.

The walls were bare.

The family photographs had been removed.

That bothered me more than I expected.

I stopped at the staircase.

Lucy stood beside me.

“You said you heard a baby crying.”

“Yes.”

“From downstairs?”

She nodded.

“Where exactly?”

She pointed.

“Behind the wall.”

I stared.

“The wall?”

“Yes.”

I walked toward it.

There was nothing unusual.

Just wood paneling.

A light switch.

An old framed painting.

I touched the wall.

Solid.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

I knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked again.

A hollow sound.

I froze.

Lucy heard it too.

She looked at me.

“That’s not solid.”

I knocked again.

Hollow.

We looked at each other.

“How did I never notice this?” I whispered.

“Because they didn’t want you to.”

I stepped back.

There was a narrow seam in the paneling.

Almost invisible.

I ran my fingers along it.

Found a tiny metal latch.

I pulled.

Nothing.

Locked.

“Move.”

Lucy reached into her jacket.

She pulled out a small screwdriver.

I stared.

“You carry that around?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“You learn to carry strange things when you’ve spent your childhood looking for locked doors.”

She worked the latch.

A click.

The panel shifted.

Behind it was darkness.

I switched on my phone flashlight.

A narrow staircase descended.

Not the basement stairs I remembered.

These were older.

Narrower.

Hidden.

My heart began pounding.

“That’s impossible.”

Lucy looked at me.

“What?”

“My father told me this part of the basement was sealed before I was born.”

She stared into the darkness.

“He lied.”

We descended.

The air grew colder.

Each step creaked beneath our weight.

Halfway down, I stopped.

“Lucy.”

“Yes?”

“Do you hear that?”

She went still.

We listened.

Nothing.

Then—

A faint metallic sound.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Something moving below us.

Lucy grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t go farther.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where I heard it.”

“Heard what?”

She swallowed.

“The crying.”

We continued.

At the bottom was a concrete corridor.

There were three doors.

Two were open.

The third had a padlock.

I walked toward it.

“That one.”

Lucy nodded.

“I remember.”

“From thirty years ago?”

“Yes.”

I crouched.

The padlock was old.

Rusty.

But not broken.

Someone had opened it recently.

There were fresh scratches around the latch.

“Someone has been down here.”

Lucy looked at me.

“Recently.”

I stood.

“We need to leave.”

She shook her head.

“No.”

“Lucy.”

“We came for answers.”

“We don’t know who’s here.”

“Neither did I when I came alone.”

“That doesn’t make it safe.”

“No.”

She looked at the door.

“But if someone has been here recently, maybe they left something.”

I hesitated.

Then reached for the lock.

It opened.

Just like that.

I pushed the door.

It swung inward.

The room was larger than I expected.

Shelves covered three walls.

Boxes filled the shelves.

Documents.

Photographs.

Old cassette tapes.

Newspaper clippings.

And one enormous filing cabinet stood in the center.

I walked inside.

My flashlight moved across the walls.

Then stopped.

Photographs.

Hundreds of them.

My grandmother.

My father.

My mother.

Chelsea.

Me.

Lucy.

People I didn’t recognize.

Dates were written beneath each photograph.

Some were from before I was born.

Others were from after.

I stepped closer.

There was a photograph of me at age six.

Playing in the backyard.

Another at ten.

Another at fifteen.

Then one at twenty.

I looked at the date.

December 19.

My birthday.

Someone had taken a photograph of me through a window.

I felt sick.

“Why would Dad have these?”

Lucy was examining another wall.

“These aren’t all your father’s.”

“What?”

She pointed.

Some photographs had handwriting beneath them.

Not Dad’s.

My grandmother’s.

I walked over.

One photograph showed Chelsea as a child.

Underneath it, Grandma had written:

She doesn’t know.

Another:

Iris still believes them.

Another:

David is getting desperate.

My stomach tightened.

Then I saw one photograph that made me stop breathing.

It was me.

As a baby.

My mother was holding me.

My father stood beside her.

But there was someone else in the background.

My grandmother.

She was staring directly at the camera.

And in her hands was a document.

I zoomed in with my phone.

The image was blurry.

But the document had a heading.

BIRTH RECORD AMENDMENT.

I looked at Lucy.

“Why would my birth record need an amendment?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

I turned back to the photograph.

Then I noticed something.

My grandmother’s expression.

She wasn’t smiling.

She looked terrified.

I pulled the photograph from the wall.

There was writing on the back.

My grandmother’s handwriting.

The second test confirmed it.

I felt my stomach drop.

“Second test?”

Lucy came closer.

“What does it say?”

I handed it to her.

She read it.

Her face changed.

“What?”

She looked at me.

“Iris…”

“What?”

“There’s a date.”

I looked.

The date was three months after I was born.

March 17, 1993.

Lucy whispered:

“That’s when Grandma found out.”

“Found out what?”

She turned the photograph over.

At the bottom was one final sentence.

Neither girl is David’s.

The room went silent.

I couldn’t breathe.

Lucy couldn’t speak.

I read it again.

And again.

Neither girl is David’s.

Neither.

That meant—

“No.”

I shook my head.

“No.”

Lucy looked at me.

“Maybe it’s wrong.”

“Maybe.”

“DNA testing wasn’t as reliable then.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What?”

“If Grandma wrote this…”

I pointed at the photograph.

“She believed it.”

Lucy looked away.

I walked toward the filing cabinet.

There was a label.

1992–1995

I pulled the drawer.

Locked.

I tried another.

Locked.

Every drawer was locked.

Then I noticed a key taped beneath the cabinet.

I pulled it free.

Lucy stared.

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t.”

I inserted the key.

The drawer opened.

Inside were medical records.

Birth certificates.

Hospital documents.

Bank statements.

And one envelope.

My name was on it.

IRIS ELIZABETH COLLINS — OPEN ONLY IF NECESSARY.

I opened it.

Inside was a letter.

Not from Grandma.

From a doctor.

I read the first paragraph.

Then my hands began to shake.

Mrs. Collins,

As requested, I am confirming that the genetic test results have been received and reviewed.

The probability that David Collins is the biological father of Iris Collins is less than one percent.

I stopped.

Lucy took the letter from my hands.

She read the rest.

Her face became pale.

“There’s more.”

She turned the page.

The same conclusion applies to Chelsea Collins.

Neither of us spoke.

My father’s voice seemed to echo inside my head.

She’s always going to leave anyway.

My entire childhood suddenly looked different.

My father had never been my biological father.

Maybe he had known.

Maybe Mom had known.

Maybe Grandma had known.

Maybe everyone had known except me.

I sat on the floor.

“I don’t understand.”

Lucy crouched beside me.

“Neither do I.”

“Then why did he raise us?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did he treat me like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did he love Chelsea?”

Lucy looked at the documents.

“Maybe he didn’t.”

I stared at her.

“What?”

“Maybe he wasn’t favoring her.”

She pointed at the records.

“Maybe he was trying to control something.”

I felt a chill.

“What?”

“The inheritance.”

“How?”

“If neither of you was biologically related to him…”

She stopped.

I understood.

My grandmother had left the money to us because we were her grandchildren.

But my father had no legal claim to our inheritance except through his position as executor.

If he could convince everyone that he was the only legitimate parent…

He could control everything.

I looked through the documents.

“Where’s the original DNA test?”

Lucy began searching.

“Here.”

She pulled out a sealed envelope.

The seal had been broken.

“Someone already opened it.”

I took it.

Inside was a single page.

Two names.

Two test results.

Then another line.

Third sample: unavailable.

I stared.

“Third sample?”

Lucy looked at me.

“Who was the third person?”

I turned the page.

Nothing.

Just a handwritten note.

Ask Anna.

Lucy froze.

“Anna.”

“Your mother.”

“No.”

“Your biological mother.”

“My mother?”

Lucy nodded.

“Anna was my mother.”

I stared.

“Then how could she be your mother if you and I have different mothers?”

Lucy looked at me.

“That’s the problem.”

Silence.

Then we heard a sound upstairs.

A floorboard creaked.

Both of us froze.

Someone was in the house.

Lucy whispered:

“We’re not alone.”

I switched off my flashlight.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Measured.

Someone walked across the living room.

Then stopped.

I could hear my own breathing.

Lucy pressed a finger against her lips.

The footsteps moved toward the hidden staircase.

One step.

Two.

Three.

The person was coming down.

I looked around desperately.

There was nowhere to hide.

Then Lucy pulled me behind a shelving unit.

We squeezed into the narrow gap.

The footsteps reached the bottom.

Stopped.

Silence.

A flashlight beam moved across the room.

I held my breath.

The beam passed over the filing cabinet.

Then the photographs.

Then the floor.

A man’s voice spoke.

“I know you’re here.”

My blood froze.

Dad.

Lucy grabbed my hand.

Dad walked farther into the room.

“Iris.”

I closed my eyes.

“You were always curious.”

His footsteps came closer.

“That’s what your grandmother loved about you.”

I felt tears burn my eyes.

Then Dad said something that made me realize he wasn’t alone.

“Come out, Lucy.”

A second voice answered from behind him.

Female.

Cold.

“David.”

Dad turned.

I couldn’t see her face.

But Lucy did.

She suddenly grabbed my arm.

Her nails dug into my skin.

“That’s her.”

“Who?”

“Anna.”

I stared into the darkness.

The woman stepped forward.

My heart stopped.

She was older.

Much older than the photograph.

But the face was unmistakable.

Green eyes.

Dark hair.

The same scar above the eyebrow.

The same mouth as mine.

She looked at me.

Then at Lucy.

And whispered:

“My daughters.”

I couldn’t move.

Lucy began crying.

“Mom?”

The woman nodded.

Dad stepped backward.

I looked at him.

Then at her.

Then at the documents in my hand.

“You said she was dead.”

Dad’s face changed.

“Iris—”

“You said Anna was dead.”

The woman looked at him.

“He lied.”

I felt something inside me break open.

All those years.

All those stories.

All those photographs.

All those birthdays.

All those explanations.

A lifetime built on a lie.

Anna stepped toward us.

“I didn’t die.”

I couldn’t speak.

“I was told my daughters were taken from me.”

Lucy sobbed.

“Why?”

Anna looked at Dad.

“He told me you were dead.”

Lucy covered her mouth.

I looked at my father.

“You told her we were dead?”

Dad’s expression collapsed.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

He shook his head.

“You don’t understand.”

“No.”

My voice rose.

“I don’t understand.”

Anna stepped forward.

“Tell them.”

Dad looked at her.

“Anna…”

“Tell them what happened.”

He said nothing.

Anna’s eyes filled with tears.

“Tell them why you took them.”

Silence.

Then Dad whispered:

“Because your father was going to kill me.”

I froze.

“My father?”

Anna nodded.

“Not David.”

My heart pounded.

“Then who?”

She looked directly at me.

“The man who is actually your father.”

The room went silent.

Dad closed his eyes.

Anna whispered:

“He has been searching for you for thirty-four years.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“Who?”

Anna looked toward the door.

And before she could answer—

A gunshot exploded upstairs.

Lucy screamed.

Dad dropped to the floor.

The lights went out.

And someone shouted from above:

“RUN!”

I grabbed Lucy’s hand.

We ran.

But as we reached the bottom of the hidden staircase, I heard another voice.

A man’s voice.

One I had never heard before.

Calling my name.

Not Iris.

Not sweetheart.

Not daughter.

Just:

“Elizabeth.”

I stopped.

Because only one person in my entire family had ever called me that.

My grandmother.

And my grandmother had been dead for eleven years.

Then the stranger spoke again.

And the words turned my blood to ice.

“Iris, I know what your grandmother promised you.”

I looked at Lucy.

Then Anna.

Then Dad.

And I finally understood.

The secret in the basement wasn’t about the money.

It wasn’t about Chelsea.

It wasn’t even about Lucy.

The money had been a shield.

The house had been a hiding place.

And my entire childhood had been built around protecting me from someone.

Someone who had just found us.

Someone who apparently knew my grandmother’s final secret.

And someone who was now standing somewhere above us.

Waiting.

For me.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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