His Last Secret

Chapter 8

Morrison lets us go from the bank. He has no choice. We didn't break any laws.

We drive in silence. The birth certificate sits between us on the seat. The paper is warm against the cold leather. The engine hums beneath us.

"Sarah Mitchell," Julian repeats. "I need to know who she was. Everything about her."

"I can run her name. See what comes up in the databases."

"Do it."

I pull out my laptop. Connect to a secure hotspot. Not the estate Wi-Fi. The keys click under my fingers.

Sarah Mitchell. Born twenty-four years ago. Died six years ago.

"Her death was ruled accidental."

"What kind of accident?"

"Car crash. Single vehicle. She drove off a cliff road."

"Where was this?"

"Oregon coast. Remote area. Near Portland."

Julian's hands grip the wheel tighter. The leather creaks.

"Oregon."

"Where Lily was adopted."

"Who adopted her?"

"I don't know yet. The records were sealed."

"By who?"

"The agency. Hope's Promise Adoption Services."

"Which means my father."

"Or Elena."

We drive to the address we found in the old records. The old agency building.

It's completely abandoned. Windows boarded up. Sign faded from years of weather. A chill crawls up my spine.

"Let's look around."

The front door is locked. Julian forces it open with his shoulder. The wood groans.

Inside, it's gutted. Filing cabinets overturned. Papers scattered everywhere. Dust coats everything. It sticks to my fingers.

"Someone already searched this place."

"Recently. Look at the dust patterns."

I pick up a few papers from the floor. They're blank. Just shreds left behind. My throat is tight.

"They took everything important."

"Not everything."

Julian points to a corner. A cabinet that's still standing upright.

"It's locked."

"Break it."

He does. The lock snaps with a c***k. The sound reverberates through the empty room.

Inside, there's a single faded folder. The paper is rough under my fingertips.

"Hope's Promise Final Records."

He opens it carefully. The pages crinkle.

"The adoption was handled by a woman named Lydia Webb."

"Marcus's wife?"

"Marcus's mother. She was the agency director."

"Where was the baby sent?"

"To a family in Portland. The Morrisons."

"Morrison? Same name as the detective?"

"Probably not related. Common name."

I write it down in my notebook. The pen scratches against the page.

"The Morrisons adopted Lily Mitchell."

"According to this document."

"What else is in there?"

"The birth mother agreement. Sarah Mitchell signed over all rights to the child."

"Under duress?"

"No way to tell from this paper."

Julian reads more. His eyes scan the faded ink carefully. The tension builds in the silence.

"There's a note. Handwritten in the margin."

"What does it say?"

"Elena was present for the signing."

"When?"

"The day Sarah signed away her rights."

"Elena was there as a witness?"

"Why would Elena witness the adoption of Julian's child?"

"To make sure it went through."

"Or to make sure it stayed secret."

We're both right. Both possibilities are equally damning. The ache settles deeper.

I take photos of the entire folder with my phone. The flash illuminates the dark room.

"We need to track down the Morrisons in Portland."

"If they still have Lily."

"She'd be thirteen by now."

"Old enough to ask questions. Old enough to know the truth."

We leave the abandoned building. The door groans behind us.

The sun is setting. Orange light spills through the trees. The air smells like pine and damp earth.

My phone buzzes.

Same unknown number.

"Check the cabin again. Under the floorboards."

I show Julian the message. The screen glows in the dimming light.

"Someone's guiding us."

"Or baiting us into another trap."

"Either way, we have to go."

We drive back to the Webb cabin. The engine rumbles beneath us.

It looks different in the evening light. Shadows are longer. Darker inside.

We go through the front door again.

The floorboards creak beneath our feet. The wood is cold through my shoes.

I find the loose one near the fireplace. Just like the message said. Relief washes through me — then fades fast.

I pry it up with my fingers. The nails scrape against my skin.

Underneath: a metal box. Cold to the touch.

I pull it out. It's heavier than I expected. The weight pulls at my arms.

Inside: adoption papers. The original ones. Before they were altered or rewritten. The paper is yellowed at the edges.

The mother is Sarah Mitchell.

The father is Julian Blackwood.

But the adoptive parents aren't the Morrisons.

That space is completely blank.

"Someone left these for us."

"To find."

"Why?"

"Because they want us to know the truth."

"And they want us to use it."

Against who?

I read further. There's a codicil attached. A legal note. The ink is faded but legible.

"It says the adoption was never finalized."

"What?"

"Lily Mitchell was never legally adopted by anyone."

"Then who raised her?"

"I don't know."

"But someone did."

"For six years."

We stare at the papers in the fading light. The orange glow makes the words blur.

"Elena was raising her."

"What?"

"Elena. She took the photos. She kept the birth certificate. She hid the secret child."

"She was hiding Lily."

"From Julian's father."

"From Arthur."

"Arthur wanted the child gone. Out of the picture forever."

"Elena wanted her safe."

"So Elena hid her. Kept her close."

"Where, though?"

"I don't know yet."

"But someone does."

"Margaret Webb."

"She's the last person who knows where Lily is."

We look at each other in the fading light. His eyes are dark with fear and hope.

"Tomorrow. We find Margaret."

"Tonight."

"It's getting dark."

"Better that way."

"Why?"

"Because no one will see us coming."

Julian puts the metal box in the trunk of the car. It clangs against the metal.

The cabin disappears in the rearview mirror. I watch it shrink until it's gone.

We have the original records now.

We have the truth about the adoption.

Now we need to find the child.

And the killer.

I'm starting to think they might be connected.

The same person who hid Lily might be the same person who killed Elena.

And that person is still out there.

Somewhere in the darkness.

Watching.

Waiting for us to make the next move.