PART 2: Mrs. Ellen’s hand flew to her throat, her eyes widening as she stared at the screen

“Arthur?” Ellen whispered, her face turning ashen. “You’re dead. The accident…”

“The accident Marcus staged?” my father said, his voice trembling with rage. “I survived. It took me ten years to find where you hid my daughter. Ten years of reconstructive surgery and searching every medical record in the country.”

Ellen’s hand shook. The remote slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor.

The sound of shattering glass echoed from the floor above. The police were in the house.

I didn’t wait for them. I walked over to the table and picked up the red folder. I looked at the photo of the fifteen-year-old girl—Lucia. She looked so happy. She didn’t know about neurologists or inheritances. She just knew the sun was warm.

I looked down at Marcus. He was still breathing, but his eyes were vacant. The “Masterpiece” had become the victim of his own art.

“The memory hasn’t returned,” I whispered, repeating the words he had said to me at 2:47 AM. “And now, yours never will.”

The hidden door burst open. Men in black uniforms flooded the room, their flashlights cutting through the clinical glare.

I didn’t look at the police. I didn’t look at Mrs. Ellen as they handcuffed her. I walked straight to the monitor. I put my hand on the screen, over my mother’s face.