The second showed another $400.

Both were from an account I didn’t recognize.

“What account is this?”

“Allison?”

She shook her head.

“That’s not your account.”

I turned the page.

There was a bank statement.

The name on it was mine.

But the account number wasn’t.

I felt cold.

“That’s impossible.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Did you open an account without telling me?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know.”

She said it so quietly that I almost missed it.

I looked at her.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because every time I tried, something happened.”

“What does that mean?”

She sat down again.

“The first time I noticed something was wrong, I was eight weeks pregnant.”

I waited.

“I got a text from your number.”

“What did it say?”

She looked toward the window.

“Don’t go to the appointment.”

My stomach dropped.

“I never sent that.”

“I know.”

“You still have it?”

She nodded.

She took out her phone.

Opened an old message.

Then handed it to me.

The text was short.

Don’t let anyone know you’re pregnant.

My hands went numb.

“I didn’t write this.”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know.”

I stared at the screen.

There was another message underneath it.

Especially Ethan.

I looked at Allison.

She didn’t look back.

“You knew something was wrong,” I said.

“Yes.”

“And you still stayed with me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Because I thought you were in danger.”

I laughed nervously.

“Me?”

She nodded.

“Not from you.”

She wiped her cheek.

“From whoever was using your name.”

I sat beside her.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then she said something that made every other question disappear.

“Daniel isn’t the person who sent those messages.”

“Then who is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who does know?”

She looked at me.

“Your father.”

My chest tightened.

“My father died eleven years ago.”

“I know.”

She reached into the folder again.

Pulled out another photograph.

This one was old.

Very old.

It showed three men standing outside a warehouse.

One was Daniel.

The second was my father.

The third man had his face scratched out with a black marker.

I stared at it.

“Where did you get this?”

“Daniel.”

“Why does Daniel have a picture of my father?”

“Because your father knew him.”

I shook my head.

“My father worked in insurance.”

“Allison whispered, “That’s what he told you.”

The room suddenly felt too small.

I stood.

“You’re saying my father lied to me?”

“I’m saying I don’t know what your father did.”

“Then why involve him?”

“Because Daniel said something to me at the hospital.”

“What?”

She looked toward the door.

Her voice dropped.

“He said your father left something unfinished.”

I couldn’t speak.

Then Mateo started crying.

Allison reached for him.

I got there first.

I lifted him carefully from the bassinet.

He was warm.

Tiny.

Perfect.

His crying stopped almost immediately.

I looked down at him and felt something inside me break.

For the first time since his birth, I wasn’t thinking about dinner.

I wasn’t thinking about work.

I wasn’t thinking about what Allison owed me.

I was thinking about how little I knew about the family I had just brought him into.

And then I noticed something.

There was a tiny red mark on Mateo’s wrist.

A hospital identification bracelet had been removed, but beneath it was another mark.

Three small dots.

In a triangle.

I had seen that symbol before.

On the photograph.

The warehouse.

On the corner of the old bank statement.

And on the black sedan in the hospital parking garage.

I looked at Allison.

“What’s this?”

She froze.

“Where did you see that?”

“On Mateo.”

She crossed the room quickly.

Her face went white.

“No.”

“What?”

She touched his wrist.

“No, no, no.”

“What’s wrong?”

She grabbed her phone.

Started scrolling through her contacts.

“Call Teresa,” I said.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Know what?”

Allison looked at me.

Then the phone rang in her hand.

The caller ID displayed a number neither of us recognized.

She answered.

Neither of us spoke.

A man’s voice came through.

Calm.

Almost gentle.

“Ethan?”

I felt the blood leave my face.

I didn’t answer.

The man continued.

“You need to stop asking Allison about Daniel.”

I tightened my grip on Mateo.

“How do you know my name?”

A pause.

Then:

“Because I was there the night your father died.”

Allison covered her mouth.

The man continued.

“And if you want your son to stay safe, you need to remember what happened in the parking garage.”

The call ended.

I stared at Allison.

She stared back.

Neither of us moved.

Then my phone buzzed.

A message.

One photograph.

It showed the hospital parking garage.

The same black sedan.

But this time, the driver’s door was open.

And standing beside it was a woman.

Allison.

Six months pregnant.

Looking directly at the camera.

Underneath the photograph was a message:

She didn’t tell you what she saw that night.

I looked at my wife.

She was crying now.

Not silently.

Not carefully.

She was shaking so hard she could barely stand.

“Tell me,” I whispered.

She closed her eyes.

“I saw who put you in the car.”

“Who?”

She opened her eyes.

And said:

“It was your mother.”

“It was your mother.”

For several seconds, I couldn’t understand the sentence.

“My mother?”

Allison nodded.

“Teresa?”

“No.”

“My mother, Linda?”

“Yes.”

I almost laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because my brain refused to accept it.

“My mother died three years ago.”

“I know.”

“Then how could she have put me in a car?”

“She didn’t.”

Allison wiped her face.

“She was the woman standing beside the car.”

I looked at the photograph again.

The woman was blurry.

The image had been taken from far away.

But now that Allison had said it, I could see it.

The same short hair.

The same coat.

The same way she stood with one hand tucked into the other sleeve.

My mother’s favorite habit.

My stomach turned.

“But she’s dead.”

“I know.”

“Then who is that?”

Allison took a shaky breath.

“Your mother had a sister.”

I stared at her.

“What?”

“She never told you.”

I sat down.

I suddenly remembered an old photograph from my childhood.

My mother standing beside another woman.

I had asked once who she was.

My mother had said, “Nobody.”

I had forgotten about it.

Allison hadn’t.

“Her name was Rebecca,” she said. “Your mother told everyone she disappeared years ago.”

“Why?”

“Because Rebecca knew about your father.”

I looked toward Mateo.

He was sleeping peacefully against my chest, completely unaware that the world around him had just changed.

“What did my father do?”

Allison hesitated.

“Nothing criminal.”

I looked at her.

“Then what?”

“He helped people.”

“Who?”

“People who needed to disappear.”

I didn’t understand.

She explained slowly.

My father had worked for an organization that helped victims of domestic violence, witnesses, and families escape dangerous situations. It wasn’t a government agency. It was a private network of lawyers, doctors, social workers, and volunteers.

Daniel had been part of it.

My father had helped people create new lives.

But one person had abused that system.

Rebecca.

She had been stealing identities and money from people in the program.

My father discovered it.

He tried to stop her.

She blamed him.

And for years, she had been trying to destroy everything he had built.

Including me.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re his son.”

I looked at Allison.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does if Rebecca believed your father left something with you.”

“What?”

“We don’t know.”

“Then what does Daniel want?”

“To protect you.”

I stared at her.

“The man threatening us wants to protect me?”

“He wasn’t threatening you.”

She picked up the phone.

“He was warning you.”

I thought about the call.

The photograph.

The words.

Then I remembered something.

“Wait.”

I stood.

“I know where I’ve seen Daniel.”

Allison looked at me.

“At the hospital.”

“Yes.”

“But before that.”

I walked downstairs.