Chapter 5 - Six Weeks Later“That photo is impossible,” Daniel said.

Emma borrowed the librarian's magnifying glass. The date was printed on the photo paper, not written later. “Somebody wants us to know she was alive,” she said. “Or wants us to chase a lie.”

Daniel sent Owen an image for verification. Then he asked Emma to describe Saint Agnes.

“The basement was painted in bright colors. It looked like a daycare until you noticed the locks. Families weren't allowed to see the records. Children were sedated without clear explanations.”

“Did Claire find evidence?”

“She had names, invoices, and recordings. She said the foundation's money was paying for something far worse than fake services.”

As they talked, a teenage boy in a blue hoodie appeared at the end of their aisle. He set down a padded envelope and rushed away.

Emma opened it. Inside was Ben's broken watch and a note: STOP ASKING OR WE COME BACK.

Daniel followed the boy outside but only saw a city bus pulling from the curb. His phone rang. Vivian.

“Leo's gone,” she said.

Daniel couldn't breathe. “What?”

After the police left, Daniel stayed in Leo's doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of his son's breathing. Parenthood had taught him that fear could be quiet. It could look like a man keeping a lamp on in the hall, or resisting the urge to wake a child just to hear him answer.

“Your son isn't in his room. His sitter can't find him.”

Daniel sprinted for his car while Emma called emergency services. By the time he reached the mansion, police were checking every floor. Vivian stood in the middle of the foyer, hands fluttering at her pearls.

A tiny voice came from the sunroom. “Daddy?”

Leo sat beneath a desk, knees tucked under his chin. He was holding an old photograph of Claire.

“Buddy.” Daniel dropped to the floor, fighting tears. “Why did you hide?”

“Grandma said Emmy goes away.”

Vivian appeared in the doorway. “He's confused. You know how children—”

“No.” Daniel stood with Leo in his arms. “From now on, don't speak for my son.”

Owen's call came in before Vivian could answer. “I checked the photograph. The print date is real. And I found the location: a private recovery center owned by a shell company.”

“Whose company?”

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Owen paused. “Vivian Hale's.”