PART 6 — The Father Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
The door opened with a slow creak.
Nobody spoke.
Vincent stared toward the entrance of the greenhouse.
Daniel was still lying on the floor, barely conscious.
I stepped in front of him instinctively.
“Stay here.”
Vincent shook his head.
“No.”
“You're injured.”
“Claire, this is my family.”
He walked toward the door.
I followed.
The hallway beyond was empty.
No footsteps.
No movement.
Just the faint sound of rain against the glass walls.
Then Vincent noticed something on the floor.
An envelope.
White.
Perfectly clean.
He picked it up.
His name was written across the front.
VINCENT MORETTI
He opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
An old man standing outside a hospital.
Vincent stared at it.
His breathing stopped.
“That’s my father.”
I looked at the date printed on the photograph.
Fifteen years ago.
The date of his father's funeral.
But the photograph was stamped with a hospital logo from three months after his supposed death.
Vincent's hands began to shake.
“This can't be real.”
“Maybe it isn't.”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“Photos can be manipulated.”
Before he could answer, the security chief came running toward us.
“Mr. Moretti!”
“What?”
“We found someone.”
“Where?”
“In the underground garage.”
Vincent immediately followed him.
I stayed close behind.
The garage was enormous.
Six luxury vehicles stood beneath bright ceiling lights.
But one vehicle was different.
An old black sedan.
Covered in dust.
The security chief pointed toward it.
“We found the car hidden behind the storage wall.”
Vincent stared.
“I've never seen it.”
The security chief opened the driver's door.
Inside was an old leather briefcase.
Vincent recognized it instantly.
“My father owned this.”
He opened it.
Medical documents filled the inside.
Hospital records.
Blood reports.
Photographs.
And handwritten notes.
I picked up one of the documents.
The name at the top made my heart race.
ISABELLA MORETTI.
Vincent looked at me.
“These records are from before she died.”
“What do they say?”
He scanned the first page.
“She was complaining of headaches.”
I took another.
“Fatigue.”
Another.
“Dizziness.”
I looked at him.
“These are the same symptoms your sons have.”
Vincent went completely still.
The security chief looked confused.
“But Isabella died four years ago.”
“Yes.”
Vincent's voice was barely audible.
“And the boys became sick eighteen months ago.”
I looked through the papers.
There were dozens of pages.
Then I found something strange.
A handwritten note.
The exposure is cumulative.
I looked at Vincent.
“What does that mean?”
He shook his head.
“I don't know.”
I found another note.
Do not allow Harrison to continue treatment.
My stomach tightened.
“Dr. Blake.”
Vincent took the paper.
The handwriting was different.
“This isn't my father's handwriting.”
“Whose is it?”
He stared at it.
“Isabella's.”
Suddenly, footsteps echoed behind us.
We turned.
Dr. Blake stood at the entrance.
He looked at the briefcase.
Then at Vincent.
“You shouldn't have opened that.”
Vincent's voice became cold.
“What is this?”
The doctor didn't answer.
“What did you do to my wife?”
“I didn't hurt Isabella.”
“You treated her.”
“Yes.”
“And she wrote that you should be stopped.”
Dr. Blake closed his eyes.
“She discovered the truth too late.”
“What truth?”
He looked at me.
Then at Vincent.
“The twins were exposed before they were born.”
Vincent's face went pale.
“To what?”
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
Dr. Blake looked exhausted.
“I expect you to understand that I was trying to reverse something someone else started.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“Then why did my sons get worse under your care?”
“Because the damage had already been done.”
I interrupted.
“Then why didn't you tell Vincent?”
The doctor looked at me.
“Because he would have killed the person responsible.”
“Who?”
Dr. Blake hesitated.
Then whispered,
“Your father.”
Vincent froze.
“My father died fifteen years ago.”
“I know.”
“Then how?”
Dr. Blake reached into his coat.
He pulled out a small key.
“This opens something you haven't found yet.”
He handed it to Vincent.
“What?”
“The old laboratory beneath the estate.”
Vincent stared at him.
“There is no laboratory.”
“There was.”
“When?”
“Before your father died.”
I looked at the security chief.
“Did you know about this?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
Dr. Blake turned toward the hallway.
“I've spent years trying to destroy what your father created.”
Vincent grabbed his arm.
“You said he created it.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Dr. Blake looked directly into his eyes.
“A system that could secretly expose people inside this house to controlled chemicals without leaving obvious traces.”
My stomach turned.
“The ventilation system.”
He nodded.
“That system wasn't built for climate control.”
Vincent released him.
“Why would my father do that?”
“Because he believed exposure could trigger specific genetic responses.”
I looked at the twins' medical files.
“You're saying he experimented on his own family?”
Dr. Blake's expression darkened.
“Yes.”
Vincent looked devastated.
“Why?”
“To create something.”
“What?”
“A child with a particular genetic profile.”
Silence.
I looked at the photograph of Isabella.
Then at Lucas and Leo.
“Why the twins?”
Dr. Blake shook his head.
“They weren't supposed to be twins.”
Vincent's face went blank.
“What?”
“Your father expected one child.”
Dr. Blake looked toward the old briefcase.
“But Isabella gave birth to two.”
“And that changed everything.”
Vincent's voice trembled.
“What happened to my father?”
Dr. Blake looked away.
“He didn't die in a car accident.”
Vincent stepped forward.
“Then tell me the truth.”
The doctor finally answered.
“He disappeared.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“I wish I were.”
Then the security chief's radio suddenly crackled.
“Sir.”
Vincent turned.
“What?”
“We have a problem.”
“What now?”
“The underground laboratory door just opened.”
Nobody moved.
The security chief continued.
“And according to the motion sensor…”
His voice dropped.
“There is someone inside.”
Vincent looked at me.
I looked at Dr. Blake.
The doctor whispered,
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I sealed that laboratory fifteen years ago.”
A loud metallic sound echoed beneath our feet.
Then another.
Someone was walking upstairs.
Coming toward us.
Slowly.
One step at a time.
Vincent reached for the security chief's weapon.
I grabbed his arm.
“Wait.”
The footsteps stopped.
A man's voice came from the darkness.
Old.
Deep.
Calm.
“Vincent.”
Vincent froze.
The voice continued.
“You've finally found the door.”
His face turned white.
Because he knew that voice.
He had heard it every night as a child.
The voice of the father he had buried fifteen years ago.
And then the man stepped into the light.
He looked older.
Thinner.
But unmistakably alive.
Vincent whispered one word.
“Dad?”
The old man smiled.
“No, son.”
He looked at me.
Then at the twins' medical files.
“I came back because someone is about to destroy everything I spent fifteen years building.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
