PART 5 — THE BABY IN MY ARMS
I couldn't move.
R's final words kept echoing in my head.
“Your son isn't missing. He's been living with someone else this entire time.”
I looked down at Miles.
He was sleeping peacefully.
Eight months old.
Eight months of midnight feedings, feverish nights, tiny smiles, and the way his fingers wrapped around mine whenever he was frightened.
I had loved this child from the moment I first held him.
Could all of that have been based on a lie?
My wife touched my arm.
“Grant…”
I pulled away.
“Don't.”
She froze.
“I'm sorry.”
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
Before I could say anything else, police vehicles appeared at the end of the street.
Officers rushed toward us.
My wife immediately handed them the black drive.
“Everything is on there.”
They took it.
Then one officer looked at me.
“Mr. Carter, we need you and the children somewhere safe.”
I nodded.
But as I stepped toward the vehicle, my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One photograph.
A newborn baby.
Underneath it:
YOUR REAL SON.
I stared at the image.
Then another message appeared.
COME ALONE.
I looked at my wife.
She saw my expression.
“What is it?”
I couldn't answer.
I showed her the phone.
Her face went pale.
“That baby…”
“What?”
She touched the screen.
“I've seen him before.”
“Where?”
She swallowed.
“At the hospital.”
My heart stopped.
“What hospital?”
“The hospital where Miles was born.”
* * *
Two hours later, we were inside a secure police facility.
The black drive was being examined.
The authorities had already discovered dozens of names.
Doctors.
Lawyers.
Business executives.
Officials.
Families.
People who had paid enormous sums for children whose identities had been changed.
Then an investigator entered the room.
“We found something.”
He placed a file on the table.
“This concerns your son.”
I opened it.
Inside was Miles's original hospital record.
But the name wasn't Miles Carter.
It was another name.
Ethan Brooks.
I looked at my wife.
“Who is Ethan Brooks?”
She shook her head.
“I don't know.”
The investigator continued.
“Your wife's medical records show she gave birth to a male child eight months ago.”
“So that's Miles.”
“No.”
He placed another document beside it.
“According to the hospital's original records, your wife gave birth to twins.”
The room went silent.
“Twins?”
My wife stared at him.
“No.”
“You had two babies,” he said gently.
“One was registered under your name.”
“And the other?”
“His record was erased.”
My blood ran cold.
“Why?”
The investigator didn't answer.
Instead, he showed me a photograph.
Two newborn babies.
One had a tiny mark behind his ear.
The same mark Miles had.
The other had a small birthmark on his wrist.
My wife suddenly covered her mouth.
“I remember that.”
I turned toward her.
“What?”
“When they brought me the baby after delivery…”
She began crying.
“There was a mark on his wrist.”
My heart stopped.
“Which baby?”
“I don't know.”
She looked at Miles.
“I was heavily sedated.”
The investigator nodded.
“That's what they used.”
“They switched the babies while you were unconscious.”
I stared at Miles.
Then at the photograph.
“Which one is my biological son?”
“We don't know yet.”
My wife broke down.
I wanted to comfort her.
But I couldn't move.
Then the investigator said:
“There is another problem.”
“What?”
“The DNA test you received earlier…”
He placed the report on the table.
“It was falsified.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“The laboratory that processed it was connected to the organization.”
My stomach dropped.
“So Miles could actually be my son?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did they make me believe he wasn't?”
“To make you stop searching.”
“For what?”
The investigator looked at the photograph.
“For the other child.”
Silence.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A woman's voice whispered:
“Grant.”
“Who are you?”
“You don't know me.”
“Where is my son?”
She began crying.
“I've been raising him for eight months.”
My heart stopped.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Emily.”
“Where is he?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Please.”
“He's safe.”
“Then let me see him.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
She whispered:
“Because they know I have him.”
The call ended.
I immediately looked at the investigator.
“Trace it.”
He was already trying.
Then the phone received another message.
An address.
A photograph.
A little boy sleeping in a crib.
Older than a newborn.
Around eight months.
I stared at the picture.
My wife grabbed my arm.
“Grant…”
The baby turned slightly in his sleep.
There was a birthmark on his wrist.
The same one from the hospital photograph.
My knees nearly gave out.
“That’s him.”
My wife started crying.
“Our son.”
The investigator looked at me.
“We need to move carefully.”
But I was already standing.
“I’m going.”
“Mr. Carter—”
“I've spent eight months believing I was raising my son.”
I looked at the photograph.
“If someone took him from us, I'm bringing him home.”
* * *
We reached the address shortly before dawn.
It was a small house at the edge of town.
The front door was unlocked.
Inside, everything was silent.
A crib stood in the bedroom.
Empty.
A blanket was still warm.
On the table was a note.
I picked it up.
“I'm sorry. They found us.”
My heart sank.
Then I heard crying.
Not from inside the house.
From outside.
I ran through the back door.
A car was disappearing down the road.
I could see a woman in the passenger seat.
And someone holding a baby.
I chased them.
But the vehicle vanished around the corner.
My phone vibrated.
One final message.
“You wanted the truth.”
Then another:
“Ask your wife why she knew about the second baby.”
I turned around.
My wife was standing several feet behind me.
Her face was covered in tears.
“Grant…”
I stared at her.
“Why did they say you knew?”
She couldn't answer.
“Tell me the truth.”
She looked down.
Then whispered:
“Because I remembered something.”
“What?”
“The night Miles was born…”
She took a shaky breath.
“I heard another baby crying.”
My blood ran cold.
“What did you see?”
She looked directly at me.
“A nurse handed someone a baby.”
“Who?”
She closed her eyes.
Then whispered a name.
“Your father.”
I froze.
“My father died ten years ago.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
She looked toward the empty road.
“But the man I saw that night…”
Her voice broke.
“…was your father.”
I couldn't breathe.
Then my phone received one final photograph.
An older man standing beside a baby.
The face was unmistakable.
My father.
Alive.
And beneath the photograph were six words:
“You still don't know who Miles is.”
