PART 4

My mother’s voice disappeared into the silence.
I sat there with the phone pressed against my ear long after the call had ended.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t blink.
I barely breathed.
Because there was only one thought running through my mind.
My mother was dead.
She had been dead for eleven years.
I had stood beside her coffin.
I had watched them lower it into the ground.
I had held the flowers.
I had listened to people tell me how sorry they were.
I had gone home afterward and slept in an empty house because I couldn’t stand being around anyone.
There was no possibility that I had mistaken her voice.
No possibility.
I knew my mother’s voice better than I knew my own.
So who had called me?
And how did that person know about Subject 0?
I immediately called Detective Reyes.
He answered quickly.
“What happened?”
“My mother’s phone called me.”
Silence.
Then:
“Your mother’s?”
“The number.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”

 

 

 

“Is the number still active?”

“No. It was disconnected years ago.”

“Did you answer?”

“Yes.”

“What did they say?”

I swallowed.

“She said, ‘They finally told you about Subject 0.’”

Reyes didn’t speak.

“Detective?”

“I need you to stay where you are.”

“I am.”

“Don’t call the number back.”

“Why?”

“Because we don’t know who’s using it.”

I looked toward the door.

“Do you think my mother is alive?”

He hesitated.

“I think we need to determine who made that call before we decide what it means.”

That wasn’t an answer.

But it was the only answer he could give.

Twenty minutes later, he arrived with two officers.

They checked the room.

They checked my daughter’s room.

They checked the building.

Nothing.

No one.

No unusual activity.

No sign that anyone had entered.

Then Reyes sat beside me.

He had brought the photograph.

The photograph of me as a newborn.

He placed it on the table.

“Where did you get this?”

“The box.”

“Did you know it existed?”

“No.”

“Did Mark know you knew?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he ever talk about your childhood?”

“Not much.”

“Your mother?”

“Only normally.”

“Your birth?”

I shook my head.

“Why?”

He looked at the photograph.

“Because your mother appears in other evidence.”

My stomach tightened.

“What evidence?”

“We found references to her.”

“Where?”

“In Evelyn’s records.”

“Before or after I was born?”

“Before.”

I stared at him.

“How long before?”

“Several years.”

The room seemed to shrink.

“Why would Evelyn know my mother before I was born?”

“We don’t know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I know.”

“I need answers.”

“So do I.”

He opened the folder.

Inside were photocopies of documents recovered from Evelyn’s house.

One was a list of names.

Another was a financial record.

Another was an old photograph.

I picked it up.

My mother was standing outside a building.

Beside her was a much younger Evelyn.

They were smiling.

They looked like friends.

I turned the photograph over.

There was a date.

Thirty-four years ago.

I stared at it.

“That was before I was born.”

“Yes.”

“Where were they?”

Reyes pointed to the building.

“St. Agnes Children’s Research Center.”

I had never heard of it.

“What was it?”

“Officially? A pediatric research facility.”

“And unofficially?”

He looked at me.

“That’s what we’re trying to establish.”

I studied the photograph again.

My mother was holding something.

A file.

On the front was a handwritten number.

00.

Subject 0.

I felt dizzy.

“My mother brought me there?”

“We don’t know.”

“But the photograph proves she was there.”

“Yes.”

“Was I there?”

“We found another photograph.”

He slid it toward me.

It showed a hallway.

A woman pushing a baby carriage.

The baby’s face was hidden.

But the date matched my birth year.

On the back were two words.

INITIAL OBSERVATION.

I couldn’t speak.

Reyes watched me carefully.

“There’s more.”

Of course there was.

There was always more.

He pulled out a document.

It was a medical intake form.

The patient’s name had been blacked out.

But the date of birth was mine.

The mother’s name was mine.

The hospital was St. Agnes.

And under “Reason for Observation” was a phrase that made my blood freeze.

FAMILY RESPONSE STUDY.

I looked up.

“What does that mean?”

“We don’t know.”

“Then find out.”

“We’re trying.”

“No.”

I pushed the paper toward him.

“You’ve been investigating Evelyn for months. You’ve found notebooks. Names. Payments. Photographs. Transfers. And now you find records from before I was even born.”

I pointed at the form.

“This is me.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still telling me you don’t know?”

Reyes didn’t respond.

I stood.

“Then I will find out myself.”

He caught my attention.

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because whoever is behind this has already demonstrated that they’re willing to enter your home.”

I stopped.

“They photographed my daughter.”

“Yes.”

“They called me from my dead mother’s number.”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to sit here?”

“I want you alive.”

His words stopped me.

Then he said something quietly.

“You’re not just a witness anymore.”

“What am I?”

He looked at the document.

“I think you’re evidence.”

That night, I made a decision.

I would find St. Agnes.

The next morning, Reyes told me the building had been closed twenty-six years earlier.

Officially, the center had shut down because of funding problems.

But the property still existed.

The building had never been demolished.

It had been purchased by a private company.

Then sold again.

And again.

Each time, the ownership trail became harder to follow.

But one name appeared in several records.

Ward.

Helen Ward.

I stared at the screen.

“So she owns the building?”

“Indirectly.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know.”

I laughed bitterly.

“Of course.”

Reyes didn’t smile.

“We found something else.”

He handed me a photograph.

The front entrance of St. Agnes.

Someone had recently painted over the old sign.

But beneath the paint, you could still make out the original letters.

I stared at the entrance.

“I want to go there.”

“No.”

“I need to.”

“No.”

“Detective—”

“Absolutely not.”

He leaned closer.

“You are not going there without police.”

I reluctantly agreed.

Two hours later, we arrived.

The building looked abandoned.

The windows were covered.

The weeds had grown through the pavement.

The doors were chained.

But something felt wrong.

There were fresh tire tracks near the back entrance.

Reyes noticed them too.

He signaled to the officers.

They moved around the building.

The back door was unlocked.

That was the first thing that frightened me.

The second was the smell.

Antiseptic.

Fresh.

Inside.

A building supposedly abandoned for decades smelled like a hospital.

Reyes raised his hand.

Everyone stopped.

We entered slowly.

The hallway was dark.

Dust covered the floor.

But beneath the dust were footprints.

Fresh footprints.

Someone had been here recently.

Maybe that morning.

Maybe minutes earlier.

We followed the corridor.

Room after room.

Empty.

Broken furniture.

Old cabinets.

Peeling walls.

Then we reached a door.

There was a small glass window.

Behind it was a room.

And on the wall was a familiar symbol.

The same symbol found in Evelyn’s notebooks.

The Ward Foundation mark.

Reyes looked at me.

“Stay here.”

I ignored him.

I stepped closer.

Inside the room was a table.

A chair.

A medical light.

And restraints.

My stomach turned.

“No.”

Reyes opened the door.

I saw the room clearly.

There were scratches on the floor.

Marks on the table.

And on the wall—

numbers.

Dozens of them.

Then:

Subject 0.

I walked toward it.

My hand trembled.

Someone had written underneath the number:

THE ORIGINAL.

I couldn’t breathe.

Then I noticed another mark.

A line had been drawn through 000.

But underneath it, someone had written:

RETURNED.

I turned toward Reyes.

“What does that mean?”

Before he could answer, we heard footsteps.

Coming from upstairs.

Everyone froze.

Reyes signaled the officers.

The footsteps stopped.

Then came a sound.

A child’s cry.

My heart nearly stopped.

I ran.

“Wait!”

I ignored him.

I raced up the stairs.

The crying became louder.

A room at the end of the hallway.

The door was closed.

I reached for it.

Reyes caught up.

“Don’t open it.”

“There is a child inside.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I heard her.”

He looked at the officers.

They prepared themselves.

Reyes slowly opened the door.

The room was empty.

No child.

No person.

Nothing.

Except a small speaker on the floor.

A recording.

Someone had played a baby’s cry through it.

I stared at the device.

Then it clicked.

They knew we were coming.

They wanted us to find this.

Reyes picked up the speaker.

“It’s a diversion.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

Then one officer shouted from downstairs.

“Detective!”

We ran back.

A door that had been locked when we arrived was now open.

Inside was a small office.

A computer was running.

Someone had left it on.

The screen showed a single file.

SUBJECT 0 — COMPLETE HISTORY.

I stared at it.

“Open it.”

Reyes hesitated.

“Open it.”

He clicked.

The file loaded.

My name appeared.

My birth date.

My mother’s name.

My father’s name.

Medical records.

School records.

Childhood photographs.

Everything.

Someone had been tracking me my entire life.

Every address.

Every school.

Every medical appointment.

Every relationship.

Every job.

Every major event.

Then the file reached my marriage.

There was a photograph of Mark.

The date underneath was from the week we met.

I stared.

Then another photograph appeared.

Me and Mark.

Our wedding.

Then:

PAIRING CONFIRMED.

My hands went numb.

“What does pairing mean?”

Reyes was staring at the screen.

“I don’t know.”

“Stop saying that.”

The next document loaded.

SUBJECT 0 — MATERNAL LINE.

My mother’s photograph appeared.

Then my grandmother.

Then my great-grandmother.

Three generations.

All connected by the same symbol.

I whispered:

“My family.”

Reyes nodded.

The next page appeared.

PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: CONTINUITY.

Then:

SUBJECT 0 → SUBJECT 7.

I stepped backward.

My daughter.

The program wasn’t testing random children.

It was following a bloodline.

Mine.

A bloodline that had been monitored for generations.

Then another line appeared.

SUBJECT 7 IS NOT FINAL.

I stared at the screen.

“What?”

The file continued.

NEXT GENERATION TARGET: PENDING.

My heart stopped.

My daughter wasn’t the final subject.

She was another link.

A continuation.

I turned to Reyes.

“They’re planning to do this again.”

He looked at the screen.

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe.”

I pointed.

“It says pending.”

Then the screen changed.

A new message appeared.

CONGRATULATIONS. YOU FOUND THE ARCHIVE.

Everyone froze.

The lights went out.

Someone screamed.

The computer screen remained lit.

Another message appeared.

NOW FIND THE WOMAN WHO STARTED IT.

Then the screen displayed a photograph.

An old photograph.

A woman I didn’t recognize.

She was standing beside my mother.

Beside Evelyn.

And beside a third woman.

Helen Ward.

Three women.

One organization.

One baby.

Me.

I stared at the unknown woman.

“Who is she?”

Reyes zoomed in.

Then his expression changed.

He knew her.

“You recognize her.”

He didn’t answer.

“Who is she?”

Finally, he whispered:

“Your grandmother.”

I felt my knees weaken.

“My grandmother died before I was born.”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s impossible.”

Reyes stared at the photograph.

“We may have a bigger problem.”

“What?”

He pointed to the date.

The photograph had been taken eight years after my grandmother supposedly died.

I couldn’t speak.

Someone had lied.

For decades.

My family had been lying.

Evelyn had been lying.

Mark had been lying.

And now someone was using my dead mother’s phone.

I looked at the photograph again.

Three women.

Three generations.

And one infant.

Me.

Then I noticed something in my grandmother’s hand.

A notebook.

Not black.

Red.

I remembered Evelyn’s notebooks.

Black.

But this one was red.

Reyes saw it too.

“That’s new.”

“What?”

“We’ve never seen that notebook.”

I looked at the computer.

The file contained another folder.

RED ARCHIVE.

I clicked it.

Password required.

Reyes stopped me.

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because whoever built this system may know we’re accessing it.”

“I don’t care.”

I typed my mother’s maiden name.

Wrong.

My daughter’s name.

Wrong.

My birth date.

Wrong.

Then I remembered the photograph.

The number.

I typed:

000.

The screen unlocked.

The folder contained one file.

Only one.

THE FIRST AGREEMENT.

I opened it.

It was a scanned document.

At the top was a date.

Forty years ago.

Below it were three signatures.

Evelyn.

Helen Ward.

And my mother.

I stared at my mother’s signature.

My hands began shaking.

The agreement described a study.

A long-term study.

It involved children from selected families.

The purpose wasn’t medical treatment.

It was something else.

Something that sounded almost impossible.

Behavioral inheritance.

The study claimed certain emotional responses, fears, attachments, and protective instincts could be tracked across generations.

The researchers wanted to know whether environmental conditioning could influence the next generation.

They wanted families.

They wanted mothers.

They wanted children.

And they wanted complete control over the environment.

My mother had signed.

Evelyn had signed.

Helen Ward had signed.

But there was a fourth signature.

Someone had signed as:

DIRECTOR.

The name was blacked out.

I looked at Reyes.

“Can you recover it?”

“Maybe.”

“Do it.”

He examined the file.

“There may be metadata.”

He worked for several minutes.

Then his eyes widened.

“I found the original filename.”

“What is it?”

He stared at the screen.

“WARD_DIRECTOR.”

“That’s Helen.”

“No.”

He pointed.

“It’s not Helen Ward.”

“Then who?”

He zoomed in.

The director’s name was:

ELEANOR WARD.

Helen’s mother.

My grandmother.

I couldn’t breathe.

The woman I had been told died before I was born wasn’t just connected to the program.

She had directed it.

And the woman who had supposedly died decades ago had signed documents years after her death.

Which meant one of two things.

Either the records were fake.

Or my grandmother had never died when my family said she did.

I looked at Reyes.

“We need to find her.”

He nodded.

Then his phone rang.

He answered.

His face changed.

“What?”

He listened.

Then:

“Repeat that.”

Silence.

“Where?”

He hung up.

“What happened?”

He looked at me.

“They found Mark.”

My heart stopped.

“Where?”

“At St. Agnes.”

I turned toward the hallway.

“What?”

“He’s alive.”

I almost collapsed.

“Where is he?”

Reyes didn’t answer.

“Detective.”

“He’s downstairs.”

We ran.

Mark was sitting in a chair in an empty room.

His hands were cuffed.

His face was bruised.

He looked exhausted.

But alive.

When he saw me, tears filled his eyes.

“I tried to warn you.”

I stared at him.

“You knew.”

“I knew some of it.”

“You knew about Subject 0.”

“Yes.”

“You knew about my mother.”

“Yes.”

“You knew about the foundation.”

“Yes.”

“You knew my daughter was selected.”

“Yes.”

My voice broke.

“Why did you marry me?”

He closed his eyes.

“At first?”

I stared at him.

“At first it was because they told me to.”

My entire body went cold.

Then he looked at me.

“But later…”

He began crying.

“Later I actually loved you.”

I didn’t move.

“Who told you to marry me?”

He looked toward the dark hallway.

Then he whispered:

“My grandmother.”

I stared at him.

“Eleanor Ward.”

He nodded.

“She isn’t dead.”

The room went silent.

“Where is she?”

Mark looked at me.

Then toward the ceiling.

“She knows you’re here.”

I felt a chill.

“What does that mean?”

Mark’s face turned pale.

“She wanted you to find this place.”

“Why?”

“Because she wants you to finish what your mother started.”

I stepped backward.

“What did my mother start?”

Mark looked directly into my eyes.

“She tried to destroy the program.”

I couldn’t speak.

“She failed.”

“Then why did she die?”

Mark hesitated.

“I don’t think she did.”

The room seemed to disappear around me.

“What?”

Mark whispered:

“Your mother didn’t die eleven years ago.”

I stared at him.

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I were.”

“I saw her.”

“I know.”

“I buried her.”

“I know.”

“Then explain it.”

Mark’s eyes filled with tears.

“They gave you a body.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“A body?”

“A woman who looked like her.”

“No.”

“They needed you to believe she was gone.”

“Why?”

“Because your mother escaped.”

My heart was pounding.

“Where is she?”

Mark shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

“I swear.”

“Then who called me?”

He looked at me.

“Your mother.”

Silence.

“And she knows where the red archive is.”

I turned toward Reyes.

Before I could say anything, every light in the building came on.

The old speakers crackled.

Then a woman’s voice filled the hallway.

Calm.

Older.

Familiar.

A voice I had heard only once that night on the phone.

My mother’s voice.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

I froze.

“Mom?”

The speaker crackled.

“I wanted to protect you.”

I stepped toward it.

“Where are you?”

Silence.

Then:

“Don’t trust Mark.”

I looked at my husband.

Mark’s face went white.

The voice continued.

“He is telling you only half the truth.”

I stared at him.

“Mom, where are you?”

Then came the sentence that destroyed everything I thought I knew.

“I am standing outside the room where you were born.”

My heart stopped.

Reyes immediately looked toward the corridor.

“Where is that?”

Mark whispered:

“Basement.”

The lights went out again.

A door slammed somewhere below us.

Then we heard footsteps.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Coming up the stairs.

Everyone drew their weapons.

I stood completely still.

The footsteps stopped.

A figure appeared at the end of the hallway.

An older woman.

Gray hair.

Thin face.

Long dark coat.

She stepped into the light.

I stared at her.

I knew that face.

I had seen it in photographs.

I had seen it in my dreams.

I had seen it beside my mother.

Beside Evelyn.

Beside me.

My grandmother.

Eleanor Ward.

The woman who had supposedly died before I was born.

She looked directly at me.

And smiled.

“Hello, Subject 0.”

I couldn’t move.

She walked closer.

“I’ve been waiting thirty years for you to come back.”

I whispered:

“Why?”

She stopped.

Then she said:

“Because your daughter isn’t the experiment.”

She looked past me.

Toward the room where my child was being protected by an officer.

“She is the proof.”

“Proof of what?”

Eleanor’s smile disappeared.

“Proof that the program worked.”

I felt sick.

“What program?”

She looked at Mark.

Then at Reyes.

Then back at me.

“The one your mother tried to destroy.”

She reached into her coat.

Everyone raised their weapons.

But she didn’t pull out a weapon.

She pulled out a red notebook.

The same notebook from the photograph.

She placed it on the floor.

Then she said:

“Read it.”

I didn’t move.

“Read it and you’ll finally understand why your mother chose you.”

I looked down at the red notebook.

Eleanor turned around.

“Wait!”

She stopped.

“Where is my mother?”

She looked back at me.

Then she smiled sadly.

“She is closer than you think.”

“What does that mean?”

Eleanor pointed toward the red notebook.

“Start with the last page.”

Then she walked away.

Reyes ordered the officers after her.

They ran.

But by the time they reached the stairs, she was gone.

No door had opened.

No footsteps.

Nothing.

It was as though she had disappeared into the building.

I stood alone with the red notebook.

My hands trembled as I picked it up.

I opened it.

The pages were filled with handwriting.

My grandmother’s.

Names.

Dates.

Families.

Generations.

And finally—

my name.

I turned the page.

There was another name.

My mother’s.

Then another.

My daughter’s.

But beneath my daughter’s name was something I had never seen before.

A fourth name.

A future subject.

No birth date.

No identity.

Only one word:

UNBORN.

I stared at it.

Then I realized what Eleanor had meant.

The program wasn’t finished.

It wasn’t even close to finished.

My daughter had survived the first experiment.

She had survived the burns.

She had survived the transfer plan.

But someone had already planned beyond her.

Beyond my daughter.

Toward a child who didn’t even exist yet.

I turned to the final page.

There was only one sentence.

Written in my mother’s handwriting.

IF YOU ARE READING THIS, THEY HAVE ALREADY CHOSEN THE NEXT CHILD.

My heart stopped.

Below it was an address.

And beneath the address were three words.

GO BEFORE BIRTH…

Click Here to continuous Read​​​​ Full Ending Story👉PART(5): – “The Address My Husband Gave Them Was the Place I Trusted Most-aurelle”