Chapter 13 - The Child Who Disappeared
There was no Emily Mercer in any public birth record Clara could find.
No death certificate.
No school record.
No adoption record.
Nothing.
Julian’s team found less.
Which was more alarming.
People leave traces simply by existing.
A child born in an American hospital should generate dozens.
If Emily Mercer existed and then disappeared from every searchable system, someone had worked to remove her.
Clara flew back to New York against Julian’s instructions.
She did not tell him until her plane was already over the Atlantic.
He called immediately.
“What part of stay in London was unclear?”
“The part where my mother has two infant bracelets from the day I was born.”
“You should have waited.”
“I have waited eleven months.”
“This is an active investigation.”
“It is my life.”
“That doesn’t make you bulletproof.”
“I survived Rotterdam.”
“Barely.”
Silence.
The memory of the dead taxi driver entered the space between them.
Clara looked out the airplane window.
“I’m coming home.”
Julian exhaled.
“The penthouse is sealed.”
“I’m not going there.”
“Where?”
“My office.”
“No.”
“Julian.”
“You’re under protective movement the second you land.”
“You don’t own me.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“But I’d prefer you remain alive long enough to keep reminding me.”
Clara closed her eyes.
For one moment, the past returned.
His hand on her face.
The airport.
The kiss neither had discussed again.
Then his professional voice returned.
“I’ll meet you at JFK.”
When Clara landed, Julian was waiting.
He looked exactly as he had eleven months earlier.
And completely different.
Dark tactical jacket.
Tired eyes.
Controlled expression.
For several seconds neither moved.
Then he took her suitcase.
“That’s my bag.”
“I know.”
“I can carry it.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you taking it?”
“Because I’m trying not to argue with you in an airport.”
“You started arguing before I landed.”
“You boarded an international flight in the middle of a threat investigation.”
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“That tone.”
He glanced at her.
“You missed it.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
They walked toward an armored vehicle.
Clara stopped.
“Where’s Sienna?”
“Federal interview facility.”
“Arrested?”
“Not currently.”
“Mom?”
Julian’s face hardened.
“Gone.”
Clara’s blood ran cold.
“What?”
“When the search team entered her house, she wasn’t there.”
“Surveillance?”
“She left through a neighboring property before the perimeter was complete.”
“You lost my sixty-one-year-old mother?”
“She had help.”
Clara stared.
“From who?”
“We don’t know.”
“Fantastic.”
They entered the vehicle.
Julian handed her a folder.
Inside were photographs from Margaret’s basement.
The locker marked R17B.
Dozens of files.
Old passports.
Account ledgers.
The baby bracelets.
And one photograph that made Clara stop.
Margaret.
Thomas.
Daniel Mercer.
A newborn baby.
The date handwritten on the back:
September 17, 1996.
Three days after Clara’s birth.
“Who is holding the baby?”
“Mercer.”
Clara frowned.
“He died in February.”
“According to the official record.”
She looked up.
Julian’s eyes were grim.
“You think the death was fake.”
“We confirmed the dental records attached to the case were substituted.”
Clara stared at the photograph again.
“So Daniel Mercer was alive after I was born.”
“Yes.”
“And holding a baby.”
“Yes.”
“Me?”
“We don’t know.”
Clara turned to the next photograph.
Margaret held the same baby.
Thomas stood beside her.
Daniel Mercer was gone.
On the back:
September 23, 1996.
One line beneath the date.
TRANSFER TO STERLING COMPLETE.
Clara’s hands began trembling.
Julian reached toward her.
She pulled away.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I need facts.”
“Then here’s one.”
He took out another document.
“Your original birth certificate was amended six weeks after issuance.”
“To change what?”
“We don’t know because the original record was sealed under federal authority.”
Clara laughed once.
A hollow sound.
“Federal authority.”
“Yes.”
“My entire life keeps becoming federal.”
Julian said nothing.
Clara looked at him.
“Who am I?”
He did not answer.
Not because he would not.
Because he could not.
And for the first time since Rotterdam, Clara was genuinely afraid.
May you like
Not of being killed.
Of discovering that the life she had defended so fiercely had been assembled for her by people who never intended her to know.
