“Exactly.”
Theo considered that.
Then he handed Ethan the green triceratops.
“You bring him back.”
Ethan closed his fingers around the toy.
“I will.”
The old central terminal stood at the edge of downtown behind a rusted fence.
Its clock had stopped at 11:17 years earlier.
Marcus arranged lawful access through the property manager and sent a private security team to check the building before we entered.
No theatrics.
No armed rush.
Just lights, cameras, and documented entry.
Locker 214 stood in the east corridor beneath a faded sign for long-distance departures.
I inserted the key.
My hand trembled.
Ethan placed his palm beneath mine.
Not over it.
Supporting.
Not directing.
The lock clicked.
Inside was a black file box.
A small digital recorder.
And a sealed envelope addressed to Ethan.
He opened it.
The first page was a medical report.
His name appeared at the top.
So did Dr. Warren’s signature.
The diagnosis of infertility had been fabricated.
The actual report showed normal fertility.
Beneath it lay a second file.
GENETIC SCREENING — CONFIDENTIAL.
Ethan read the first paragraph.
Then stopped.
“What does it say?”
He handed me the page.
The Brooks family had participated in an experimental genetic study after Ethan’s accident.
Not for infertility.
For a rare hereditary condition associated with abnormal blood clotting and sudden cardiac complications.
Ethan carried the gene.
So did his mother.
“So she kept us apart because she thought a child could inherit this?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
I turned the page.
Theo’s name appeared.
My breath stopped.
“Why is his name in a six-year-old file?”
“It isn’t six years old.”
The testing date was three months ago.
Someone had obtained Theo’s DNA.
“How?” I whispered.
School medical forms.
A discarded cup.
A clinic visit.
Too many possibilities.
The result line was highlighted.
Theo did not carry the dangerous gene.
Relief came first.
Then confusion.
A handwritten note appeared beneath the result.
The child is not at risk because the mutation does not come from Ethan.
Ethan read it twice.
“That makes no sense.”
The recorder inside the locker blinked.
A red light.
Already active.
A woman’s voice came from the speaker.
Margaret Brooks.
“If you are hearing this, then Emily found you before I could repair what I did.”
Ethan went still.
“I separated you because I believed your father’s illness had passed to you. Warren told me any child you conceived could die young.”
She paused.
“I was wrong about the medicine.”
Her breathing shook.
“But I was not wrong about the secret.”
Ethan gripped the edge of the locker.
“What secret?”
The recording continued.
“Ethan, the genetic mutation did not come from the Brooks family because you do not belong to the Brooks bloodline.”
The terminal seemed to disappear around us.