I thought Golden Cradle was finished.

Six months had passed since Mercer House became the Grace Center for Family Reunification. Lawrence was behind bars. My father had surrendered his evidence. The investigations had crossed borders, dismantled clinics, frozen accounts, and reunited families who had spent years believing their children were dead.

For the first time since Grace was born, I allowed myself to imagine an ordinary life.

Then, one Tuesday morning, Rebecca walked into my office carrying a black envelope.

She locked the door behind her.

“What happened?”

She placed the envelope on my desk.

“No return address.”

“Who delivered it?”

“A courier.”

“To the center?”

“No.”

Her expression tightened.

“To Grace’s pediatrician.”

Every muscle in my body went rigid.

“Why would anyone send something there?”

“That’s what worries me.”

I opened the envelope.

Inside was a photograph.

Grace.

Sleeping in her crib.

My blood turned cold.

The photograph had been taken inside my home.

Not through a window.

Not from the doorway.

From directly above her crib.

On the back, someone had written:

THE EMPIRE DID NOT END.

Rebecca immediately reached for her phone.

I stopped her.

“There’s more.”

A small silver key fell from the envelope.

Stamped into the metal were two words.

VAULT 18.

Rebecca stared at it.

“Helena gave us the key to Vault Seventeen.”

“I remember.”

“Then what is eighteen?”

I turned the photograph over again.

There was another line beneath the first.

Smaller.

Almost invisible.

ASK ADRIAN WHAT HE LEFT OUT.

My father.

Again.

I called him.

He answered from federal detention.

“Brooke?”

“What is Vault Eighteen?”

Silence.

That silence told me everything.

“You know.”

“Where did you hear that number?”

“Someone photographed Grace sleeping.”

His breathing changed.

“Get her out of the house.”

“Who took the photograph?”

“Brooke, listen to me. Take Grace and leave.”

“Who took it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then tell me about the vault.”

Another pause.

Finally, my father whispered:

“Vault Seventeen contained records of the children Golden Cradle moved.”

“And eighteen?”

He did not answer.

“Dad.”

“Vault Eighteen was different.”

“How?”

“It contained records of children Golden Cradle created.”

My hand tightened around the phone.

“Grace?”

“No.”

That should have comforted me.

It didn’t.

“How many children?”

“I don’t know.”

“You helped build the system.”

“I helped build the financial architecture. Helena controlled the medical side.”

“Lawrence?”

“Lawrence expanded it.”

Rebecca moved closer so she could hear.

“What was the purpose?”

My father’s answer came slowly.

“Succession.”

I felt sick.

“What does that mean?”

“Golden Cradle wasn’t only taking children from vulnerable mothers. Some embryos were created using genetic material from powerful families.”

“Without consent?”

“In some cases.”

“Why?”

“To create biological heirs when legitimate succession became inconvenient.”

I stared through the office window at the courtyard.

Parents played with children beneath newly planted trees.

Families rebuilding what Golden Cradle had broken.

“How many?”

“I told you—I don’t know.”

“Then why hide this?”

“Because when I discovered Vault Eighteen, I was already planning my disappearance.”

“That doesn’t answer me.”

“No.”

His voice cracked.

“I hid it because one of the files had your name on it.”

I stopped breathing.

“My name?”

“Yes.”

“What file?”

“An embryo registry.”

Rebecca whispered, “Brooke…”

I could barely hold the phone.

“What did it say?”

My father answered:

“Two viable embryos were created from your genetic material.”

My knees weakened.

“That’s impossible.”

“Lawrence accessed samples collected during one of your earlier fertility evaluations.”

“Grace was one embryo.”

“Yes.”

“And the second?”

Silence.

“Dad.”

“I never found it.”

My heart began pounding.

“What do you mean you never found it?”

“The transfer records were removed.”

“Was it destroyed?”

“I don’t know.”

“Implanted?”

“I don’t know.”

“Born?”

“I don’t know.”

I closed my eyes.

Somewhere, there might be another child genetically connected to me.

Another child created without my consent.

Another life hidden inside Golden Cradle’s records.

Then my father said:

“Brooke, there’s something else.”

“What?”

“The embryos were not identical in parentage.”

I froze.

“What does that mean?”

“Grace was created using Lawrence’s genetic material.”

“I know.”

“The second embryo wasn’t.”

Rebecca stared at me.

“Whose was it?”

My father hesitated so long I almost screamed.

“Connor’s.”

The room went silent.

My ex-husband.

The man who believed Grace was his until the truth destroyed what remained of our marriage.

“They created an embryo from Connor and me?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Before the divorce.”

“Why?”

“Backup succession.”

The phrase made me nauseous.

Children as backups.

Pregnancies as insurance policies.

Lives arranged like corporate contingency plans.

“Where is that embryo?”

“I don’t know.”

I looked at the silver key.

“But someone does.”

My father’s voice sharpened.

“Do not go to Zurich.”

I almost laughed.

“You know me better than that.”

“That is exactly why I’m telling you.”

The line went quiet.

Then my father whispered:

“If Vault Eighteen is still intact, Lawrence was never the only person controlling Golden Cradle.”

The call ended.

Rebecca stared at me.

“We contact federal investigators.”

“Yes.”

“We do not fly to Switzerland alone.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not going anywhere near that vault without an armed team.”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I’m learning.”

She almost smiled.

Then her phone rang.

She answered.

Her expression changed immediately.

“What?”

She listened.

Then looked at me.

“Brooke…”

“What happened?”

Rebecca lowered the phone.

“Lawrence was attacked in prison.”

“Is he alive?”

“Barely.”

“Who attacked him?”

“They don’t know.”

“Why?”

Rebecca swallowed.

“Before he lost consciousness, he asked for you.”

I felt nothing.

Then she continued.

“He said there was something you needed to know about Vault Eighteen.”

I looked at the silver key.

“What?”

Rebecca’s face had gone pale.

“He said, ‘Tell Brooke the second child was born first.’”

I stopped breathing.

“What?”

“Grace wasn’t the first baby created from your stolen genetic material.”

The office seemed to tilt.

“That doesn’t mean the child survived.”

“No.”

Rebecca looked at the photograph of Grace.

“But Lawrence said one more thing.”

“What?”

“He said…”

Her voice dropped.

“Brooke has already met her.”

PART 7 — THE GIRL I HAD ALREADY MET

I did not sleep that night.

Grace slept beside me in a portable bassinet inside a secured federal apartment while two agents stood outside the door.

Every few minutes, I looked at her.

Then Lawrence’s words returned.

Brooke has already met her.

Somewhere in my past was a girl created from my stolen genetic material and Connor’s.

A daughter.

Possibly older than Grace.

And apparently I had looked directly at her without knowing who she was.

By sunrise, Rebecca had covered the dining table with photographs.

Everyone connected to Golden Cradle.

Nurses.

Assistants.

Former patients.

Employees.

Women from Mercer House.

People from Vale Global.

“Lawrence said ‘her,’” Rebecca said. “So we assume the child is female.”

“And alive.”

“If Lawrence was telling the truth.”

“He was dying.”

“That has never prevented anyone in this family from lying.”

Fair point.

I picked up another photograph.

Nothing.

Then another.

Nothing.

Three hours passed.

Finally Rebecca slid a picture toward me.

Vanessa Dane.

Victoria Lane.

The woman hired to destroy my marriage.

I stared at her face.

Dark hair.

Sharp cheekbones.

Twenty-eight years old.

Too old.

“No.”

Rebecca nodded.

“I already checked.”

Next.

Sarah Bellamy.

Impossible.

Next.

A young nurse from Mercer House.

Twenty-four.

No.

Another employee.

Thirty-one.

No.

Then Rebecca’s phone rang.

She answered.

Listened.

And slowly sat down.

“What?”

She put the call on speaker.

A federal investigator spoke.

“We accessed archived metadata from Vault Seventeen.”

“And?”

“There is a reference to Eighteen.”

My pulse jumped.

“What reference?”

“A patient identifier.”

“Name?”

“No name.”

“Age?”

The investigator paused.

“Sixteen.”

My stomach dropped.

A sixteen-year-old girl.

“Where is she?”

“We don’t know.”

“Then how have I met her?”

“There’s another field.”

“What?”

“Placement.”

Rebecca leaned toward the phone.

“Placement where?”

The answer changed everything.

Grace Center for Family Reunification.

I stood.

“What?”

“The identifier appears in your center’s intake database.”

“No.”

I grabbed my coat.

Rebecca blocked me.

“Brooke.”

“She’s at my center.”

“We don’t know that.”

“The record says—”

“The record could have been planted.”

“Then we find out.”

Federal agents arrived before we left.

Twenty minutes later, I entered the Grace Center through a secured rear entrance.

The building suddenly felt different.

Every teenager in the hallway made me stop.

Every young face became a possibility.

Then the center director met us.

“We currently have seven sixteen-year-old girls receiving services.”

“Bring me their files.”

“We need authorization.”

The federal agent beside me produced it.

Seven files arrived.

I opened the first.

Nothing.

Second.

Nothing.

Third.

Then my hand stopped.

LILY MARSH.

Sixteen.

Entered the center four months earlier.

Mother deceased.

Father unknown.

Former foster placement.

I knew her.

Of course I knew her.

Lily volunteered in the infant room.

She loved holding Grace.

The first time she met my daughter, Grace had been screaming.

Lily took her.

Grace stopped almost instantly.

I had laughed.

“You have magic hands.”

Lily smiled.

“My mom used to say babies know when someone belongs.”

At the time, I thought it was sweet.

Now I could barely breathe.

Rebecca read over my shoulder.

“Brooke…”

A photograph was attached.

Lily had Connor’s eyes.

I had never noticed.

Or perhaps I had refused to notice because I had no reason to look.

“Where is she?”

The director checked.

“Infant room.”

I ran.

Lily sat in the rocking chair beside the window.

Grace was not there.

Another baby slept against her chest.

Lily looked up.

“Ms. Brooke?”

I stopped in the doorway.

She smiled.

Then saw Rebecca.

The agents.

Her smile disappeared.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No.”

My voice cracked.

“No, sweetheart.”

The word escaped before I could stop it.

Lily stared at me.

I sat across from her.

“Do you know where you were born?”

She shrugged.

“Some private hospital.”

“Do you know its name?”

“No.”

“Your mother never told you?”

Lily’s expression changed.

“My mom wasn’t my biological mother.”

My heart pounded.

“Who told you that?”

“She did.”

“When?”

“Before she died.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

“What was her name?”

“Marianne Marsh.”

Rebecca immediately began searching.

I asked the question I was terrified to ask.

“Did Marianne ever mention Golden Cradle?”

Lily froze.

There.

The answer was on her face.

“Why do you know that name?”

I could barely breathe.

“Because Golden Cradle hurt me too.”

Lily carefully placed the baby into a bassinet.

Then she reached beneath her shirt.

A chain hung around her neck.

Attached to it was a tiny silver disk.

The Golden Cradle symbol.

Rebecca drew a sharp breath.

“Where did you get that?”

“My mom.”

“What did she tell you?”

“That if anyone ever asked about Golden Cradle, I should run.”

Lily stood.

Fear entered her eyes.

“Are you one of them?”

“No.”

“Then why are federal agents here?”

“Because I think Golden Cradle did something to both of us.”

She backed away.

“What?”

I looked at Rebecca.

Then at Lily.

There was no gentle way to say it.

“I believe they created an embryo using genetic material stolen from me.”

Lily stared.

“And?”

“Connor Harrington’s genetic material.”

Her face changed at the name.

I noticed immediately.

“You know Connor?”

“No.”

“Lily.”

She looked toward the door.

“Why did you react?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Because I’ve seen him.”

My stomach dropped.

“Where?”

“In photographs.”

“Whose photographs?”

“My mother’s.”

Rebecca stepped closer.

“Marianne had pictures of Connor?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Hundreds.”

I stopped breathing.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where are they?”

Lily whispered:

“Storage locker.”

An hour later, federal agents opened it.

Boxes filled the room.

Medical records.

Photographs.

Newspaper clippings.

Vale Global reports.

Pictures of Connor from college.

Our wedding.

Our house.

Me.

There were photographs of me pregnant with Grace.

Taken from across streets.

Parking lots.

Restaurants.

Then I found one labeled:

BIOLOGICAL MOTHER.

My photograph.

My knees almost gave out.

Lily stood behind me.

“What does that mean?”

I could not answer.

Rebecca found another envelope.

Inside was a DNA report.

Lily Marsh.

Connor Harrington.

Probability of biological paternity:

99.99%.

Lily made a choking sound.

“No.”

Then Rebecca turned the page.

Another comparison.

Lily Marsh.

Brooke Vale.

Probability consistent with biological maternity:

99.99%.

The room became completely silent.

Lily stared at me.

I stared at her.

Sixteen years.

My daughter had lived sixteen years without me.

Not because I abandoned her.

Because I never knew she existed.

Lily began shaking.

“You’re my mother?”

I started crying.

“Biologically.”

“No.”

She backed away.

“Lily—”

“No!”

She ran from the locker.

I followed.

But when I reached the parking lot, a black SUV was already pulling away.

“LILY!”

She was in the back seat.

Rebecca shouted for the agents.

Cars moved.

Weapons came out.

The SUV accelerated through the gate.

My phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered.

“Where is my daughter?”

A familiar voice laughed softly.

Lawrence.

My blood froze.

“You’re supposed to be in a prison hospital.”

“I was.”

“How?”

“You continue making the same mistake, Brooke.”

“What mistake?”

“Believing Golden Cradle was an organization I joined.”

The SUV disappeared around the corner.

Lawrence continued:

“I built the version you discovered.”

“Let Lily go.”

“She came willingly.”

“You’re lying.”

“Ask yourself why Marianne spent sixteen years preparing her.”

“For what?”

“To find you.”

My stomach tightened.

“You placed Lily at the Grace Center.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed you to discover Vault Eighteen.”

“You could have told me.”

“No.”

His voice hardened.

“Because someone else was listening.”

“Who?”

“The person who ordered my attack.”

I gripped the phone.

“Who?”

Lawrence was silent.

Then:

“Marianne Marsh.”

I stared at Rebecca.

“Lily’s adoptive mother is dead.”

Lawrence laughed.

“No, Brooke.”

Cold spread through me.

“Marianne Marsh was never Lily’s adoptive mother.”

“What was she?”

“The embryologist who created her.”

My breath stopped.

“And she is very much alive.”

“Where?”

“With Lily.”

I looked toward the road.

The SUV.

“Why would Lily go with her?”

“Because Marianne raised her.”

My voice shook.

“What does she want?”

“Grace.”

Every part of me went cold.

“Why?”

Lawrence answered quietly.

“Because Grace was never the final child in the succession plan.”

I could hear my own heartbeat.

“What does that mean?”

“There was a third embryo.”

Rebecca’s face went white.

“No.”

Lawrence continued.

“Vault Eighteen doesn’t contain records of one hidden daughter.”

My hand began trembling.

“It contains records of an entire generation.”

“How many?”

“Twenty-six viable births.”

I could barely speak.

“Using whose DNA?”

There was a long silence.

Then Lawrence answered:

“Yours.”

The phone nearly slipped from my hand.

Twenty-six.

“No.”

“Your father’s company required a Vale heir. Helena wanted Alexander Mercer’s bloodline restored. I wanted control. Marianne wanted something else.”

“What?”

“To prove that families could be manufactured.”

I felt sick.

“And Lily?”

“The first successful birth.”

“Grace?”

“The twenty-sixth.”

I closed my eyes.

“What happened to the others?”

Lawrence whispered:

“That is why Marianne needs Grace.”

“Why?”

“Because twenty-four of the children are missing.”

I stopped breathing.

Then he said the sentence that made me understand the nightmare had never ended.

“Brooke, somebody has been collecting your children for sixteen years.”

PART 8 — THE TWENTY-FOUR MISSING CHILDREN

For several seconds, I could not speak.

Twenty-four missing children.

My children.

Not children I had carried.

Not children I had known existed.

But children created from genetic material taken from my body without my knowledge or consent.

I looked through the storage facility gates where the black SUV carrying Lily had disappeared.

“Where are they?”

Lawrence was silent.

“WHERE ARE THEY?”

“I don’t know.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I knew about the births. Marianne controlled placement.”

“Then tell me where she placed them.”

“That information was stored in Vault Eighteen.”

“And you don’t have it?”

“Marianne removed the placement ledger eight years ago.”

Rebecca stepped closer.

“Put him on speaker.”

I did.

“Lawrence,” she said, “why twenty-six?”

A pause.

“Twenty-six what?”

“Children.”

He almost laughed.

“Because Helena was obsessed with redundancy.”

“What does that mean?”

“She believed one heir could die.”

My stomach turned.

“Two could be compromised.”

Rebecca’s face hardened.

“So she created twenty-six?”

“No.”

Lawrence’s voice became quieter.

“She authorized sixty-four embryos.”

I grabbed the side of the car.

Rebecca caught my arm.

“How many births?”

“Twenty-six confirmed.”

“And the others?”

“Some failed.”

“Some?”

“Others were frozen.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

I closed my eyes.

This was worse than anything we had uncovered.

Golden Cradle had not simply stolen children.

It had manufactured human lives as insurance policies.

“Why use me?”

“Because Adrian’s original Vale ownership structure contained a biological succession clause.”

“My father wrote that?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“Your grandfather.”

I froze.

I had spent months believing I had reached the beginning of this nightmare.

Apparently I had only reached another layer.

Lawrence continued.

“Helena discovered the clause when she challenged Adrian’s acquisition of Mercer Biotech.”

“And my DNA activated it?”

“Potentially.”

“Potentially?”

“The original clause required a direct female-line descendant.”

Rebecca looked at me.

“Brooke.”

I understood.

Grace.

Lily.

The others.

Girls were more valuable to them.

“How many of the twenty-six were girls?”

“Twenty-one.”

I felt sick.

“And five boys?”

“Yes.”

“Where are they?”

“I told you—”

“You don’t know.”

“No.”

I stared toward the road.

“Then why should I believe anything you say?”

“Because Marianne is afraid.”

I laughed bitterly.

“She just kidnapped Lily.”

“She didn’t kidnap her.”

“She put her in a vehicle and disappeared.”

“Lily trusts her.”

“That makes it worse.”

Lawrence was silent.

Then he said:

“Marianne isn’t running.”

“What is she doing?”

“Gathering.”

One word.

One horrifying word.

“Gathering what?”

“You already know.”

The call disconnected.

I immediately called Grace’s security team.

“Status.”

The agent answered.

“Grace is secure.”

“Do not move her.”

“Understood.”

“Double the team.”

“Already done.”

I ended the call.

Rebecca was staring at the storage unit.

“What?”

“Marianne wanted us to find this.”

“How do you know?”

“Look around.”

I did.

The photographs.

DNA reports.

Boxes.

Everything organized.

Nothing hidden.

“This wasn’t storage,” Rebecca said.

“It was a message.”

She walked toward the back wall.

A map hung behind the final stack of boxes.

The United States.

Twenty-six red pins.

Rebecca pulled the boxes away.

Under every pin was a first name.

LILY — BOSTON.

ETHAN — PHILADELPHIA.

MAYA — ATLANTA.

SOPHIE — DENVER.

CALEB — PORTLAND.

Names continued across the map.

Twenty-six.

I approached slowly.

Then I saw one pin without a city.

GRACE.

Rebecca whispered:

“She tracked every child.”

I looked at the dates beside their names.

Lily was first.

Sixteen years ago.

Then another birth eleven months later.

Then another.

Sometimes months apart.

Sometimes years.

Grace was last.

But one name had been crossed out.

AMELIA — CHICAGO.

Beside it:

DECEASED — AGE 9.

I touched the paper.

My hand shook.

A child I never knew existed had lived nine years.

And died.

“What happened to Amelia?”

Rebecca opened a folder beneath the map.

Inside was a newspaper clipping.

A house fire.

Mother and daughter killed.

The photograph showed a smiling little girl.

Brown hair.

My eyes.

I sat down.

I had thought nothing could hurt like discovering Lily.

I was wrong.

Because Lily could still become angry with me.

She could ask questions.

She could refuse me.

She could someday choose whether she wanted a relationship.

Amelia never could.

I touched the photograph.

“I didn’t know you.”

Rebecca crouched beside me.

“You couldn’t have.”

“That doesn’t make this easier.”

“No.”

I looked at Amelia’s smile.

“I should have known.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Brooke.”

“I should have felt something.”

“That isn’t how biology works.”

“I know.”

But grief is not logical.

I had missed her first word.

Her first birthday.

Her first day of school.

Her final day.

I had not known to mourn her.

Until now.

Then Rebecca noticed something.

“Wait.”

She pulled the clipping closer.

“What?”

“The mother.”

The article identified her as Rachel Stone.

Rebecca opened another box.

She found Rachel’s Golden Cradle placement file.

Then she stopped.

“Brooke.”

“What?”

“Rachel wasn’t Amelia’s adoptive mother.”

“What was she?”

“Security.”

I stared.

“Golden Cradle assigned an operative to raise her?”

Rebecca nodded.

Then she found another file.

Maya’s guardian.

Security contractor.

Ethan’s father.

Former Vale Global employee.

Sophie’s mother.

Mercer Biotech researcher.

One after another.

Every child had been placed with someone connected to the organization.

“They weren’t adopted out,” I whispered.

“They were distributed.”

Rebecca nodded.

“Raised separately.”

“For what?”

Neither of us answered.

Because we both knew.

Twenty-six children raised inside twenty-six different environments.

A long-term experiment.

I searched the boxes faster.

Then found a folder marked:

COHORT V — BEHAVIORAL OUTCOMES.

Inside were psychological assessments.

Academic records.

Medical histories.

Personality profiles.

Children reduced to data.

Subject 04 demonstrates high compliance.

Subject 09 exhibits leadership tendencies.

Subject 12 shows attachment resistance.

Subject 17 demonstrates abnormal suspicion of authority.

Then Lily.

SUBJECT 01.

Her file was hundreds of pages.

Marianne had documented everything.

First steps.

First words.

School grades.

Nightmares.

Friendships.

Illnesses.

There were even photographs from birthdays.

Rebecca turned toward me.

“She didn’t study Lily from a distance.”

“No.”

“She raised her.”

I looked at the notes.

The handwriting changed over time.

Early entries were clinical.

Cold.

Then something happened.

At age four:

Lily asked whether I would still love her if she broke every plate in the kitchen.

Underneath, Marianne had written:

This question is not relevant to the study.

At age six:

Lily had a fever. I remained beside her overnight. Protocol required observation only. I violated protocol.

At age eight:

Lawrence requested transfer. Refused.

At age ten:

Helena wants Lily moved to succession preparation. Refused again.

At age twelve:

I can no longer pretend she is a subject. She is my daughter.

I stared at the sentence.

Marianne had helped create the experiment.

Then fallen in love with the child she was supposed to study.

Rebecca found the final entry.

Three years ago.

They are beginning collection.

My stomach tightened.

“What does collection mean?”

Rebecca turned the page.

Subjects 03, 07, 11 and 19 no longer at assigned residences.

Another entry.

Subject 14 missing.

Then:

Subject 22 guardian murdered.

Then:

I believe someone is assembling the cohort without Helena’s authorization.

I stared.

Not Helena.

Not Lawrence.

Someone else.

The final handwritten entry was six months old.

If Grace survives birth, Brooke will expose them.

Below it:

I must get Lily to her biological mother before collection reaches Subject 01.

I stopped breathing.

“Marianne sent Lily to me to protect her.”

Rebecca nodded slowly.

“Then why take her back?”

My phone buzzed.

A message from Lily.

Just three words.

I’m sorry, Brooke.

Then another.

She showed me everything.

I typed immediately.

Where are you?

No response.

I called.

Straight to voicemail.

Then a photograph arrived.

Lily stood beside Marianne.

Marianne looked nothing like I expected.

She was in her late fifties.

Gray hair.

Tired eyes.

One hand rested protectively on Lily’s shoulder.

Behind them was an old building.

Rebecca zoomed in.

“Do you recognize it?”

“No.”

She stared.

Then:

“I do.”

“Where?”

“Mercer Biotech.”

“The original facility?”

“The one Adrian shut down twenty years ago.”

My phone rang.

Lily.

I answered immediately.

“Lily?”

“Don’t be angry.”

Her voice was trembling.

“I’m not angry.”

“You should be.”

“Where are you?”

“With Mom.”

The word hurt.

But Marianne had earned that word through sixteen years of scraped knees, fevers, birthdays and fear.

I had contributed DNA.

Marianne had raised her.

I would not steal that from Lily.

“Is Marianne hurting you?”

“No.”

“Are you free to leave?”

“Yes.”

“Then come back.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because she found one of them.”

“One of who?”

Lily began crying.

“One of the other kids.”

My heart pounded.

“Who?”

“Subject Seventeen.”

I looked at the map.

Rebecca found the name.

NOAH — VIRGINIA.

“Is Noah with you?”

“No.”

“Where is he?”

“That’s why we came here.”

Marianne’s voice appeared in the background.

“Lily, give me the phone.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“I want to tell her.”

“Tell me what?”

Lily breathed shakily.

“Noah escaped.”

“Escaped from where?”

Silence.

Then Lily whispered:

“The place where they’re keeping the others.”

Rebecca and I looked at each other.

“How many are there?”

“Noah saw fourteen.”

Fourteen children.

Alive.

Together.

“Where?”

“He doesn’t know. They transported him blindfolded.”

“Then how did he escape?”

“He jumped from a vehicle.”

“Where is Noah now?”

“With someone Marianne trusts.”

“Bring him to federal authorities.”

“We can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because Noah says federal agents are involved.”

My blood went cold.

Of course.

Golden Cradle had survived because respectable institutions had protected it.

Apparently some still did.

“Lily, listen carefully. Do not go anywhere else.”

“I have to.”

“No.”

“We found something in the old lab.”

“What?”

“Files.”

“What kind?”

“Embryology files.”

“Send them to Rebecca.”

“We can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because they aren’t about the twenty-six children.”

I stopped.

“What are they about?”

Lily’s breathing changed.

Then she whispered:

“The mothers.”

“What mothers?”

“The women who carried the embryos.”

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

Twenty-six births required pregnancies.

Twenty-six women.

“Are they alive?”

“Some.”

“How many?”

“We don’t know.”

Then Marianne took the phone.

“Brooke.”

Her voice was calm.

Older.

Exhausted.

“You created Lily.”

“You stole my cells.”

“Yes.”

“You implanted my child into another woman.”

“Yes.”

“You spent sixteen years watching my daughter while I didn’t even know she existed.”

“Yes.”

No excuses.

That somehow made me angrier.

“Give Lily back.”

“She does not belong to either of us.”

The words stopped me.

Marianne continued.

“She chooses where she goes.”

I looked at Rebecca.

Marianne was right.

I hated that she was right.

“What do you want?”

“To finish what I should have stopped sixteen years ago.”

“Then tell me where you are.”

“I can’t trust your agents.”

“Neither can I.”

That surprised her.

“Then perhaps you are finally ready.”

“For what?”

“To understand why Grace was created.”

“I already know. Succession.”

“No.”

“Lawrence said—”

“Lawrence only knew the program he controlled.”

My pulse quickened.

“Then tell me.”

“The first twenty-five children were experiments.”

“And Grace?”

“Proof.”

“Proof of what?”

Marianne went silent.

Then:

“That the modification worked.”

Every hair on my arms rose.

“What modification?”

Rebecca moved closer.

Marianne whispered:

“Brooke, did anyone perform a complete genomic analysis on Grace after she was born?”

“No.”

“Do it.”

“Why?”

“Because Lawrence was not simply trying to create his biological daughter.”

My throat tightened.

“What did he do?”

“He altered the embryo.”

I stared at Grace’s photograph on my phone.

“Altered how?”

“Twenty-five previous births gave Golden Cradle sixteen years of data.”

“Data for what?”

“Selecting traits.”

I could barely speak.

“Are you saying Grace was genetically engineered?”

“Yes.”

The room disappeared around me.

“What traits?”

“I don’t know all of them.”

“Tell me what you do know.”

“Immune response. Metabolism. Certain inherited disease markers.”

“And?”

Marianne hesitated.

“Neurological development.”

My stomach turned.

“You experimented on my baby.”

“Lawrence did.”

“You helped build the program.”

“Yes.”

“Then you don’t get to separate yourself from him.”

“No.”

Her answer was immediate.

“I don’t.”

For the first time, I heard guilt in her voice.

Then she said:

“But Grace is not the child you should be most worried about.”

I gripped the phone.

“Why?”

“Because the modification began years before Grace.”

“What does that mean?”

“The cohort wasn’t simply being observed.”

A door slammed on Marianne’s end.

She stopped talking.

“Marianne?”

Nothing.

Then Lily screamed.

“Mom!”

A crash.

Running footsteps.

“Lily!”

Gunfire exploded through the phone.

I heard Marianne shout:

“GET DOWN!”

The connection distorted.

Then a man spoke.

Not Lawrence.

Not Connor.

Not my father.

A stranger.

“Subject One secured.”

Lily screamed my name.

Then the line went dead.

I stood frozen.

Rebecca was already calling agents.

But my phone buzzed again.

A video arrived.

Lily was on her knees.

Hands behind her back.

Marianne lay beside her, bleeding but conscious.

Behind them stood a row of teenagers.

Fourteen.

Boys and girls.

Different faces.

Different ages.

But I saw pieces of myself everywhere.

My eyes.

My smile.

My jaw.

The shape of my hands.

My children.

Then a man stepped into the frame.

He wore a dark suit.

Silver hair.

Perhaps seventy.

He smiled directly into the camera.

“Hello, Brooke.”

I had never met him.

But Rebecca had.

She dropped her phone.

“No.”

“What?”

She stared at the screen.

“I watched this man die.”

My stomach tightened.

“Who is he?”

Rebecca looked at me.

“Helena’s husband.”

I froze.

“Alexander Mercer?”

Rebecca nodded.

The man who had supposedly been dead for thirty-four years.

The man whose frozen genetic sample Helena had spent decades trying to use.

Alexander looked into the camera.

Then he placed one hand on Lily’s shoulder.

“You have my granddaughter.”

Grace.

His granddaughter?

Lawrence was supposed to be Grace’s biological father.

Unless—

Alexander smiled.

“And I have your children.”

Behind him, fourteen teenagers stared silently at the camera.

“Bring Grace to me.”

My entire body went cold.

Alexander leaned closer.

“And Brooke?”

He smiled.

“Ask Lawrence whose DNA he really used.”

PART 9 — THE MAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD

Rebecca stared at the video as though the dead had reached through the screen and touched her.

“Alexander Mercer died thirty-four years ago.”

I looked at her.

“You’re certain?”

“I saw his body.”

That sentence meant considerably less to me than it once would have.

“My father was dead too.”

Rebecca said nothing.

“Helena kept talking about restoring Alexander’s bloodline.”

“Yes.”

“She believed his genetic sample had been destroyed.”

“Yes.”

“And Lawrence claimed he used his own DNA to create Grace.”

Rebecca slowly looked at me.

“But Alexander just called Grace his granddaughter.”

My phone rang.

Federal detention hospital.

Lawrence.

I answered immediately.

“Whose DNA did you use?”

Silence.

Then:

“So Alexander contacted you.”

“You knew he was alive.”

“Yes.”

“Helena didn’t.”

“No.”

“You let her spend thirty-four years mourning her son.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because grief made Helena predictable.”

My stomach turned.

“And Grace?”

Lawrence breathed slowly.

“She is biologically mine.”

“Alexander called her his granddaughter.”

“Yes.”

The answer made no sense.

Until Rebecca whispered:

“Lawrence…”

Her face changed.

“No.”

“What?”

Rebecca stared at the phone.

“Ask him who his father was.”

I stopped.

Lawrence said nothing.

“Who was your father?”

Silence.

Then Lawrence answered.

“Alexander Mercer.”

Everything inside me went cold.

Rebecca sat down.

“No.”

Lawrence continued.

“Helena never knew.”

“How?”

“Alexander had an affair.”

“With your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Who was she?”

“A researcher at Mercer Biotech.”

“Did Alexander know about you?”

“He arranged my education.”

“So Helena spent decades trying to create Alexander’s heir…”

“…while his son stood beside her.”

The cruelty of it was almost impossible to comprehend.

“You could have told her.”

“I could have.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because Helena would never have accepted an illegitimate child as Alexander’s successor.”

“So you gave her one.”

“Grace.”

I closed my eyes.

Grace was Lawrence’s daughter.

Lawrence was Alexander’s son.

Which made Alexander Grace’s biological grandfather.

Helena had gotten exactly what she wanted without ever understanding how.

I hated every person involved.

“Where is Alexander?”

“I don’t know.”

“He has Lily and fourteen others.”

Lawrence became silent.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Then help me find them.”

“You still don’t understand.”

“Then explain it.”

“Alexander isn’t collecting the children.”

“What?”

“He’s recovering them.”

I gripped the phone.

“Recovering them from whom?”

“The person who took them from him.”

Rebecca moved closer.

“Who?”

Lawrence whispered:

“Adrian.”

My father.

Again.

“No.”

“Ask him.”

“He is in federal custody.”

“That doesn’t mean his network disappeared.”

“My father confessed.”

“To what he wanted you to know.”

I remembered Vault Eighteen.

The missing records.

The second embryo.

The secrets Adrian had already admitted keeping.

“Why would Adrian take the children?”

“Because he discovered what Alexander was building.”

“The genetic program?”

“Yes.”

“So he tried to stop it.”

“At first.”

Those two words frightened me.

“At first?”

“Then Adrian realized the children could destroy Mercer’s succession claims.”

“How?”

“Each child represented biological evidence of illegal experimentation, stolen material, fraudulent lineage claims and financial manipulation.”

“So my father hid them.”

“Some.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Stop saying that!”

“I truly don’t.”

My anger exploded.

“You all built systems inside systems and somehow nobody knows where anything is!”

Lawrence almost laughed.

“That was the point.”

Then he coughed.

His breathing became rough.

“Brooke…”

“What?”

“Do not take Grace to Alexander.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“He will threaten Lily.”

“I know.”

“He will threaten all of them.”

“I know.”

“And eventually you will convince yourself that giving him one baby might save fourteen teenagers.”

My arms went cold.

“You think I would trade Grace?”

“I think mothers do irrational things when someone threatens their children.”

“They are not bargaining chips.”

“No.”

His voice softened.

“That is one thing you taught me.”

I hated hearing him say it.

“What does Alexander want with Grace?”

“Confirmation.”

“Of what?”

“That the final modification succeeded.”

Marianne had said almost the same thing.

“Explain the modification.”

“I can’t.”

“Won’t.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because Marianne handled the genome work.”

“And you allowed it?”

“I authorized the project.”

“Then you know something.”

Lawrence hesitated.

“The earlier children were trials.”

“What kind?”

“Different modifications. Different combinations.”

“Combinations of what?”

“Vale and Mercer genetic lines.”

My stomach dropped.

“Not every child is biologically mine?”

“No.”

“Connor?”

“One.”

“Alexander?”

“Several.”

“Other men?”

“Yes.”

“How many fathers?”

“Eight.”

I felt sick.

Twenty-six children.

My genetic material.

Eight different men.

None with my consent.

“What made Grace different?”

“All prior modifications changed one or two targets.”

“And Grace?”

Lawrence was silent.

“How many?”

“Seventeen.”

Rebecca whispered:

“My God.”

I could barely speak.

“You made seventeen genetic modifications to an embryo?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Alexander wanted proof that the process could be inherited.”

I stopped.

“Inherited?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t care only about Grace.”

“No.”

“He cared about Grace’s future children.”

“Yes.”

The horror became clear.

This had never been about one heir.

Alexander wanted a designed bloodline.

A dynasty engineered before birth.

I looked toward the room where Grace slept under guard.

“What did you change?”

“Some disease-risk markers.”

“What else?”

“Metabolic traits.”

“What else?”

“Immune-response genes.”

“What else?”

Another pause.

“Potential cognitive-development targets.”

“Potential?”

“The science was uncertain.”

“You experimented anyway.”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

Lawrence said nothing.

“LAWRENCE.”

“One modification was not ours.”

I froze.

“What?”

“Marianne inserted it without authorization.”

“What modification?”

“I never discovered it.”

“Then why did you allow the pregnancy to continue?”

“Because by the time we discovered the alteration, you were already pregnant.”

My stomach twisted.

“Marianne knows.”

“Yes.”

“Alexander knows?”

“I believe so.”

That was why he wanted Grace.

Not merely because she was his granddaughter.

He wanted to know what Marianne had done.

The call crackled.

Then Lawrence whispered:

“Find Marianne before Alexander makes her tell him.”

The line disconnected.

---

I called my father.

No answer.

Rebecca called the federal detention facility.

Then her expression changed.

“What?”

She lowered the phone.

“Adrian is missing.”

I stared.

“What do you mean missing?”

“He was transported for questioning this morning.”

“And?”

“The convoy never arrived.”

My heart pounded.

“How many agents?”

“Four.”

“Where are they?”

“Vehicle found abandoned.”

“Bodies?”

“None.”

No bodies.

No father.

No answers.

Then my phone buzzed.

A message from Adrian.

DO NOT TRUST ALEXANDER.

Another followed.

DO NOT TRUST LAWRENCE EITHER.

Then:

TRUST THE CHILD WHO RAN.

Noah.

Subject Seventeen.

I immediately called Marianne’s phone.

Dead.

Rebecca searched the files until she found Noah’s emergency contact.

A woman named Claire Benton.

We drove there under federal escort.

The house was empty.

Back door open.

Food still warm on the stove.

Rebecca drew her weapon.

“Claire?”

Nothing.

Then something moved beneath the kitchen table.

A teenage boy crawled out.

Seventeen years old.

Thin.

Bruised.

Terrified.

“Noah?”

He backed against the wall.

“Who are you?”

“Brooke.”

His eyes widened.

He stared at my face.

Then began crying.

“You’re real.”

I crouched.

“So are you.”

He looked toward the agents.

“No police.”

“They’re federal.”

“That’s worse.”

One agent stepped back.

I stayed.

“Where is Claire?”

“They took her.”

“Alexander?”

Noah shook his head.

“Who?”

“The people with the white symbol.”

“What symbol?”

He drew it with his finger on the dusty floor.

A circle.

Inside it—

a cradle.

Broken in half.

Rebecca stared.

“That isn’t Golden Cradle.”

“No,” Noah whispered.

“They hate Golden Cradle.”

“Who are they?”

“They call themselves the Foundlings.”

I looked at him.

“Children?”

“Some.”

“How many?”

“Hundreds.”

My breath caught.

“That’s impossible.”

“No.”

His eyes filled with fear.

“Golden Cradle wasn’t the only program.”

Rebecca and I stared at each other.

Noah continued.

“There were clinics before Mercer House.”

“How do you know?”

“Because they showed us.”

“Who?”

“The Foundlings.”

“Why?”

“They wanted us to join them.”

“Join them doing what?”

Noah looked at me.

“Destroying everyone who created us.”

I felt cold.

“Did you join?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because they don’t only want the doctors.”

His voice shook.

“They want the families too.”

“What families?”

“The biological families.”

My heart stopped.

“Why?”

“They say blood is the original crime.”

Rebecca whispered:

“Brooke…”

Noah suddenly grabbed my wrist.

“You need to hide Grace.”

“I am.”

“No.”

He shook his head violently.

“You don’t understand.”

“What?”

“They already know where she is.”

My phone rang.

Grace’s security team.

I answered.

“Status?”

Static.

Then screaming.

I stood.

“STATUS?”

Gunfire.

A man shouted.

Then the line disconnected.

I ran.

By the time we reached the secured apartment, the hallway was filled with agents.

One guard had been shot.

Another unconscious.

The door to Grace’s room stood open.

The bassinet was empty.

I stopped breathing.

“No.”

Rebecca ran inside.

“GRACE!”

Nothing.

On the mattress lay Grace’s stuffed rabbit.

Connor’s gift.

And underneath it—

a white card.

The broken-cradle symbol.

I picked it up.

One sentence was written across the back.

ONE CHILD FOR TWENTY-FOUR.

My knees buckled.

Then someone spoke behind me.

“Brooke.”

I turned.

Connor stood in the doorway.

Blood covered his shirt.

His face was bruised.

And he was holding a baby.

Grace.

I ran to him.

He placed her in my arms.

“She’s okay.”

I checked her face.

Hands.

Breathing.

Everything.

“Oh, God.”

I held her against my chest.

“What happened?”

Connor leaned against the wall.

“They came through the service entrance.”

“The Foundlings?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did you get Grace?”

“One of the attackers handed her to me.”

I stared.

“What?”

“He didn’t take her.”

“Why?”

Connor reached into his pocket.

He removed a photograph.

An old photograph.

A teenage boy.

Perhaps seventeen.

The boy looked astonishingly like Connor.

On the back:

SUBJECT 02.

I looked at Connor.

“What is this?”

His face had gone white.

“The man who handed Grace to me.”

“What did he say?”

Connor swallowed.

“He called me Dad.”

Silence.

“That’s impossible.”

Connor shook his head.

“Brooke…”

He turned the photograph over.

There was a DNA summary attached.

Biological mother:

BROOKE VALE.

Biological father:

CONNOR HARRINGTON.

I stared.

Lily was not the only embryo created from us.

Connor whispered:

“His name is Caleb.”

My mind raced back to the map.

Caleb.

Portland.

One of the twenty-six.

Connor continued:

“He told me they don’t want Grace.”

“Then what do they want?”

“He said the kidnapping attempt was a warning.”

“Warning about what?”

Connor looked toward Noah.

Noah had followed us into the apartment.

The moment he saw Caleb’s photograph, he recoiled.

“You know him,” I said.

Noah nodded.

“He leads the Foundlings.”

My blood froze.

My biological son.

Connor’s biological son.

A child neither of us had known existed.

Now leading a group determined to destroy Golden Cradle—and possibly everyone connected to it.

Connor handed me another note Caleb had given him.

I opened it.

MOTHER,

ALEXANDER HAS LILY.

LAWRENCE HAS LIED TO YOU.

ADRIAN HAS LIED TO YOU.

MARIANNE HAS LIED TO ALL OF US.

IF YOU WANT YOUR CHILDREN ALIVE, STOP FOLLOWING THE ADULTS WHO CREATED THIS.

Below it was an address.

And one final sentence.

COME MEET THE CHILDREN THEY THOUGHT WOULD NEVER FIND EACH OTHER.

I looked at Grace.

Then at Noah.

Then at the photograph of Caleb.

For months, I had been fighting adults who believed children could be inherited, engineered, transferred and owned.

Now those children had grown up.

They had found one another.

And they were done waiting for permission to decide what happened next.

PART 10 — THE CHILDREN WHO FOUND EACH OTHER

The address Caleb gave me led to a church.

At least, it had once been a church.

It stood forty miles outside the city, surrounded by dead fields and an abandoned cemetery. The stained-glass windows had been boarded over. Weeds climbed the stone steps. The wooden cross had disappeared from the bell tower years ago.

Rebecca parked half a mile away.

“No federal convoy,” she said.

“That was Caleb’s condition.”

“That doesn’t make it smart.”

“I didn’t say it was smart.”

Connor sat beside me.

Grace was not with us.

There were some decisions I had finally learned not to make twice.

She had been moved to a location known to exactly three people, none connected to Vale Global, Mercer Biotech, Golden Cradle, my father, Lawrence, or federal investigators.

Noah came too.

He insisted.

“He’ll trust me.”

“Caleb?”

Noah nodded.

“Maybe.”

“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”

“It’s more than you have.”

Fair.

We approached the church.

The front doors opened before we touched them.

A young woman stood inside.

Seventeen.

Maybe eighteen.

She looked at me.

Then smiled sadly.

“Subject Twenty.”

I hated hearing that.

“What is your name?”

She seemed surprised.

“Eva.”

“Then you’re Eva.”

Something softened in her face.

She stepped aside.

“Caleb is waiting.”

We entered.

The pews had been removed.

Mattresses lined one wall.

Computers filled another.

Medical files were stacked everywhere.

And then I saw them.

Children.

Teenagers.

Young adults.

Some sixteen.

Some younger.

A few appeared to be in their early twenties.

They stopped talking when I entered.

One by one, they looked at me.

I saw myself everywhere.

Not completely.

A nose.

A chin.

The shape of an eyebrow.

The way someone tilted her head.

Connor stopped beside me.

“My God.”

A boy near the wall had Connor’s exact smile.

A girl beside him had mine.

Noah whispered:

“Welcome to the Foundlings.”

Then Caleb appeared.

Seventeen years old.

Tall.

Dark hair.

Connor’s eyes.

My mouth.

He did not smile.

“So.”

He looked at me.

“The biological mother arrives.”

I refused to let the words wound me.

“My name is Brooke.”

“I know.”

“And you’re Caleb.”

“That’s what they named me.”

“What do you call yourself?”

He hesitated.

“Caleb.”

“Then Caleb it is.”

His expression shifted slightly.

Perhaps he had expected me to claim him.

Demand something.

Cry.

Instead, I waited.

He looked toward Connor.

“You came too.”

Connor swallowed.

“I wanted to meet you.”

“You already did.”

“For thirty seconds.”

“That was enough.”

Connor accepted that.

Good.

Caleb turned toward Rebecca.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“She protects me.”

“No.”

His eyes hardened.

“She protects institutions.”

Rebecca did not argue.

“Sometimes.”

That surprised him.

Caleb looked at Noah.

“You brought them.”

“I chose to.”

“You always choose the adults.”

“No.”

Noah stepped forward.

“I chose Brooke because she asked my name before she asked my subject number.”

The room became quiet.

Caleb looked at me again.

Then he pointed toward a table.

Twenty-six folders.

One for every child.

“Do you want to see what they made?”

I approached.

Caleb opened the first.

Lily.

The second.

Caleb.

The third.

A girl named Hannah.

The fourth.

Ethan.

Each contained genetic information.

Birth records.

Behavioral reports.

Guardian assignments.

Medical experiments.

Every life measured.

Compared.

Scored.

“You said the Foundlings were hundreds,” I said.

“We are.”

“But these are the twenty-six from my cohort.”

“Yes.”

“How many are here?”

“Nine.”

“Noah saw fourteen.”

“Five were taken yesterday.”

“By Alexander?”

“Yes.”

“Lily?”

Caleb’s face hardened.

“Alexander has her.”

“And Marianne?”

“Alive.”

“Where?”

“With him.”

“Why?”

“Because he needs her.”

“For Grace?”

“Yes.”

I stepped closer.

“Then help me get Lily back.”

Caleb laughed.

“You still think this is a rescue mission.”

“It is to me.”

“That’s because you only learned we existed yesterday.”

The words landed.

I let them.

“You’re right.”

He seemed almost irritated by my answer.

“I didn’t know you existed.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“No.”

“I grew up without you.”

“Yes.”

“My guardian beat me.”

Connor flinched.

I did not look away.

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do it.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even know.”

“No.”

“Then stop apologizing.”

I nodded.

“All right.”

That stopped him again.

He had prepared himself for excuses.

I had none.

“Tell me what you need from me.”

Caleb stared.

“Nothing.”

“Then tell me what Lily needs.”

His expression changed.

There.

A weakness.

Not weakness.

Love.

“You care about her.”

“She’s my sister.”

“Yes.”

“We all are.”

He looked around.

“Or brothers.”

Connor stepped toward the files.

“Caleb, who created the Foundlings?”

“We did.”

“I mean originally.”

“Children from programs like ours started finding each other online.”

“How?”

“Medical anomalies. Sealed birth certificates. Matching clinic names. Strange guardians. DNA sites.”

Caleb pointed toward the broken-cradle symbol painted on the wall.

“The first group formed nine years ago.”

“You were eight.”

“I joined later.”

“Who leads it?”

Caleb smiled.

“Nobody.”

Noah said quietly:

“That isn’t true.”

Caleb turned.

Noah continued.

“You lead this cell.”

“Because someone has to make decisions.”

“And who gives you information?”

Caleb’s face changed.

There it was.

Someone else.

“Who?” I asked.

Caleb said nothing.

I walked closer.

“Alexander has Lily because somebody knew where Marianne was going.”

Silence.

“Someone knew Grace’s security location.”

Still nothing.

“Someone knew my father’s convoy route.”

Caleb looked at me sharply.

“You think the same person arranged all three?”

“Yes.”

Rebecca spoke.

“And that person has access to Golden Cradle records, federal security and the Foundlings.”

Caleb’s jaw tightened.

“Who is it?”

Noah answered.

“Mother.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

Caleb spun toward Noah.

“Shut up.”

Rebecca stepped forward.

“Who is Mother?”

Noah backed away.

Caleb looked furious.

“NOAH.”

But Noah had already decided.

“The person who found us.”

“Name.”

“We don’t know.”

Caleb grabbed him.

“You promised.”

I moved between them.

“Let him go.”

Caleb stared at me.

Then released Noah.

Noah rubbed his arm.

“She contacts different cells.”

“How?”

“Encrypted messages.”

“Voice?”

“Sometimes.”

“Have you seen her?”

“No.”

“Why call her Mother?”

“Because she says every child deserves one person who chooses them.”

The phrase sounded compassionate.

That frightened me more.

“What does she want?”

“To destroy the programs.”

“And biological families?”

Noah looked at Caleb.

Caleb answered.

“She believes genetic parents are part of the system.”

“Even parents whose genetic material was stolen?”

“She says intent doesn’t change origin.”

“That’s insane.”

Caleb’s eyes flashed.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“You see us and immediately call us your children.”

I stopped.

He was right.

I had done exactly that.

“I’m sorry.”

His anger faltered.

“I should have said children created using my stolen genetic material.”

“Sounds clinical.”

“It does.”

“Then what are we?”

I looked around the room.

Nine young people watching me.

Waiting to see whether I would claim ownership or deny connection.

“I don’t know.”

Nobody moved.

“I know biology connects us.”

I looked at Caleb.

“But biology doesn’t tell me what relationship you owe me.”

His face softened.

“You don’t owe me the word mother.”

Then I looked around.

“None of you do.”

Eva began crying.

Caleb stared at the floor.

Finally he whispered:

“That isn’t what Adrian said.”

My heart stopped.

“My father?”

Caleb looked up.

“Adrian found us before Mother did.”

“When?”

“Years ago.”

“He knew?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Almost all of us.”

Rage burned through me.

“He knew Lily existed.”

“Yes.”

“He knew you existed.”

“Yes.”

“He knew there were twenty-six.”

“Yes.”

“And he never told me.”

Caleb shook his head.

“Why?”

“Because he was protecting you.”

I laughed bitterly.

“Apparently that sentence is carved on our family crest.”

Caleb almost smiled.

Then became serious.

“Adrian said if you discovered us, you would destroy yourself trying to save everyone.”

“He doesn’t get to decide that.”

“I know.”

“Where is he?”

Caleb hesitated.

“Here.”

Everything stopped.

“What?”

A door opened behind the old altar.

My father walked out.

No restraints.

No guards.

Alive.

Free.

I stared at him.

Rebecca reached for her weapon.

Caleb immediately stepped between them.

“Don’t.”

I looked at Adrian.

“You escaped federal custody.”

“No.”

“Your convoy disappeared.”

“Yes.”

“Four agents are missing.”

“They’re alive.”

“Where?”

“Safe.”

I crossed the room and slapped him.

Hard.

Nobody moved.

“That is for knowing about Lily.”

He nodded.

I slapped him again.

“That is for Caleb.”

He nodded again.

A third time.

“That is for every child whose name you decided I was too fragile to hear.”

His cheek reddened.

“I deserve that.”

“No.”

My voice shook.

“You deserve much worse.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He looked around.

“Because Alexander was watching you.”

“For sixteen years?”

“Yes.”

“So?”

“If you knew the children existed, you would search.”

“Yes.”

“And Alexander would follow.”

“Yes.”

“I kept them separated because I believed separation kept them alive.”

Caleb said:

“It didn’t.”

Adrian closed his eyes.

“No.”

“How many died?” I asked.

“Three.”

My heart stopped.

“Marianne’s map showed Amelia.”

“There were two others.”

Names.

I needed names.

“Who?”

“Daniel. Subject Eight.”

He swallowed.

“And Chloe. Subject Fifteen.”

Three children.

Three lives I had never known.

I forced myself to remain standing.

“What happened?”

“Alexander found them.”

“What did he do?”

My father looked toward Caleb.

Caleb answered.

“He tested them.”

“What does that mean?”

No one spoke.

“CALEB.”

“He was trying to identify which modifications worked.”

My stomach turned.

“And they died?”

“Yes.”

I covered my mouth.

Then Adrian said:

“That is why I hid the others.”

I turned on him.

“And now Alexander has fourteen.”

“Yes.”

“Because your plan failed.”

“Yes.”

Again.

No excuse.

I almost hated him more for agreeing.

“Where is Alexander?”

“We finally know.”

Caleb walked toward a computer.

A satellite image appeared.

A medical complex hidden in the mountains.

“Where?”

“Former Mercer Biotech research facility.”

Rebecca stared.

“That facility burned down.”

“The building did.”

Caleb enlarged the image.

“Not what was underneath.”

An underground complex.

“How many people?”

“At least forty armed personnel.”

“Children?”

“Fourteen confirmed.”

“Lily?”

“Yes.”

“Marianne?”

“Yes.”

I looked at my father.

“And Alexander?”

“Inside.”

“Then we go.”

Adrian shook his head.

“No.”

I laughed.

He immediately corrected himself.

“I mean—we cannot simply enter.”

“Better.”

Caleb looked at me.

“There’s another problem.”

“What?”

“Alexander expects you.”

“Obviously.”

“No.”

Caleb enlarged another file.

“He has been expecting you for sixteen years.”

A video appeared.

Dated the day Lily was born.

Alexander Mercer stood inside a laboratory.

Younger.

Alive.

Beside him was Marianne.

And my father.

I slowly turned toward Adrian.

“What am I looking at?”

He looked sick.

“Keep watching.”

Alexander held newborn Lily.

Then spoke toward the camera.

Subject One viable.

Marianne replied:

Maternal donor remains unaware.

Alexander smiled.

Then my father said something.

The audio was faint.

Caleb increased the volume.

Adrian’s younger voice filled the church.

Brooke can never know.

I stared at him.

He whispered:

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Keep watching,” Caleb said.

The recording continued.

Alexander handed Lily to Marianne.

Then he looked directly toward my father.

And when Brooke eventually produces the final subject?

My father answered.

Then the program ends.

Alexander smiled.

No, Adrian.

He looked down at Lily.

Then it begins.

The video ended.

“What begins?” I whispered.

Adrian did not answer.

Caleb opened another document.

PROJECT EVE.

My name appeared beneath it.

PRIMARY MATERNAL GENETIC SOURCE: BROOKE VALE.

Then:

PHASE ONE: 26 LIVE-BIRTH CANDIDATES.

PHASE TWO: SELECTION.

PHASE THREE: REUNIFICATION.

I stared at the final word.

“Reunification?”

Caleb nodded.

“They were always planning to bring us together.”

“Why?”

He opened the next page.

And there it was.

The reason Alexander had spent sixteen years waiting.

The reason children had been raised separately.

The reason their behavior, intelligence, health and personalities had been measured from birth.

The reason Grace had been modified more extensively than any of them.

PHASE FOUR: COMPATIBILITY.

Rebecca whispered:

“Compatibility for what?”

Adrian looked at me.

His eyes filled with shame.

“Transplantation.”

I stopped breathing.

“What?”

“Alexander isn’t building heirs.”

My father’s voice cracked.

“He’s building biological spare parts.”

The room went completely silent.

I looked around at the young people.

Children created from my genetic material.

Raised.

Studied.

Selected.

Not for inheritance.

Not for succession.

For organs.

Marrow.

Tissue.

Whatever Alexander needed.

“Whose body?”

I whispered.

Nobody answered.

“Who were they created to save?”

Caleb slowly turned the laptop toward me.

A medical file appeared.

The patient’s name had been hidden.

But the photograph had not.

A young woman.

Perhaps thirty-five.

Unconscious in a hospital bed.

Machines surrounding her.

Rebecca gasped.

My father lowered his head.

I stared at the woman.

Because I knew her face.

I had seen it in photographs my entire childhood.

My mother.

The woman Adrian told me had died when I was six.

I looked at him.

“You told me she was dead.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I believed she would be.”

“Who is she?”

“Your mother.”

My voice disappeared.

Adrian whispered her name.

“Elizabeth Vale.”

I stared at the image.

My mother had been alive all these years.

And Alexander Mercer had created twenty-six children from my stolen genetic material—

to keep her alive.

CLICK HERE CONTINUE TO READ PART 11 — THE WOMAN I BURIED TWENTY-NINE YEARS AGO