Chapter 5: Claire Finally Revealed Which Boy Had Survived
Chapter 5: Claire Finally Revealed Which Boy Had Survived
Claire stared at the photograph in my hand as though it were something dangerous.
I held it tighter.
“You said that isn’t Michael.”
She swallowed.
“It isn’t.”
“Then who is it?”
She looked at me for a long moment.
“I don’t know.”
“That isn’t good enough.”
“I know.”
I crouched beside her.
“Claire, there were two boys.”
She nodded.
“One was Michael.”
“And the other?”
She looked away.
“The other one was never supposed to exist.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Before she could answer, headlights appeared at the far end of the parking garage.
Claire immediately grabbed my sleeve.
“We have to go.”
“Who is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You always say that.”
“Because if I knew, we’d already be dead.”
We ran.
The garage exit was only a few yards away.
We burst into the street and crossed between two parked cars.
A horn blared.
Someone shouted.
We kept running until we reached a twenty-four-hour diner across the road.
Claire pushed through the glass door.
The smell of coffee and fried food hit me.
A waitress looked up.
Claire grabbed the booth farthest from the windows.
I sat opposite her.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I placed the photograph on the table.
“Tell me everything.”
Claire looked at it.
“The boy on the left is Michael.”
I pointed to him.
“That’s me?”
“No.”
My heart sank.
“The boy on the right is you.”
I stared at the photograph.
The two boys looked almost identical.
But there was one difference.
The boy on the right had a small scar beneath his chin.
The same scar I had.
I touched it.
“This is me.”
Claire nodded.
“Yes.”
“Then who is Michael?”
She pointed at the other boy.
“Your brother.”
I stopped breathing.
“I don’t have a brother.”
“You did.”
“What happened to him?”
Claire looked toward the window.
“Your father killed him.”
The words were so blunt that I couldn’t process them.
“Why?”
“Because Michael remembered.”
“Remembered what?”
“The truth about the experiment.”
I leaned closer.
“What truth?”
Claire’s voice dropped.
“Your father wasn’t trying to erase memories.”
I frowned.
“Then what was he doing?”
“He was moving them.”
The diner seemed to become strangely quiet.
“He believed memories could be transferred from one human brain to another.”
I looked at the photograph.
“Michael was the first successful subject.”
“No.”
Claire shook her head.
“Sarah was.”
My wife’s face flashed through my mind.
Sarah.
The little girl who had died.
Claire continued.
“Your father transferred part of Sarah’s memory into Evelyn.”
“That’s why Evelyn remembers things that belonged to Sarah.”
“Yes.”
“And Michael?”
“Michael was different.”
“How?”
“He remembered everything.”
I stared at her.
“Everything?”
“His own memories. Sarah’s memories. Claire’s memories.”
“Your memories?”
She nodded.
“He knew what our father had done.”
“Then why didn’t he tell anyone?”
“He tried.”
“What happened?”
“He disappeared.”
“When?”
“Twenty-seven years ago.”
The number hit me again.
The same number that kept appearing everywhere.
I looked down at the photograph.
“And I was left behind.”
Claire nodded.
“Your father couldn’t control you the way he controlled Michael.”
“Why?”
“Because your brain rejected the procedure.”
I remembered the white room.
The straps.
The machine.
The screaming.
I closed my eyes.
“I remember.”
Claire leaned toward me.
“What?”
“I remember Michael.”
Her eyes widened.
“What did you see?”
“He was holding my hand.”
I swallowed.
“He told me not to be afraid.”
Claire’s expression softened.
“That sounds like him.”
“He said they were going to make me forget him.”
“Yes.”
“And then he said something else.”
“What?”
I looked at her.
“He told me he would come back.”
Claire went completely still.
“He came back.”
“What?”
“He came back three years ago.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Three years ago?”
She nodded.
“That was when your father announced that Michael was dead.”
I suddenly remembered my father’s funeral.
The rain.
The black umbrellas.
The closed coffin.
The strange feeling that something was wrong.
“You’re saying the man buried three years ago wasn’t my father?”
Claire shook her head.
“No.”
“Then who was it?”
She didn’t answer.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Evelyn.
Don’t trust Claire.
I stared at it.
Another message followed.
She knows what happened to Michael.
Then:
She was there when he died.
I looked up.
Claire saw my expression.
“It’s Evelyn.”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
I showed her the phone.
Claire’s face became pale.
“She shouldn’t know that.”
“Know what?”
“That Michael died.”
I frowned.
“She just said she knows what happened to him.”
“No.”
Claire shook her head.
“She doesn’t know.”
“Then why would she say it?”
Claire looked toward the entrance.
“Because someone has her phone.”
I immediately stood.
“What?”
“She would never tell you to trust me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she doesn’t know what happened after Michael disappeared.”
I stared at her.
“You do?”
Claire nodded slowly.
“I saw him.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
My heartbeat thundered.
“Where?”
“At the clinic.”
“The one beneath the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing there?”
“He wasn’t alone.”
“With who?”
Claire hesitated.
Then she whispered,
“Your father.”
I felt cold.
“My father was dead.”
“That’s what everyone believed.”
“Who was really in the clinic?”
Claire stared at me.
“Both of them.”
“My father and Michael?”
“Yes.”
I sat down.
“What were they doing?”
Claire reached into her coat.
She pulled out a small key.
I recognized it immediately.
It was identical to the key my wife had left beside the pharmacy bag.
“What does that open?”
“The room where Michael was kept.”
“Where?”
Claire placed the key on the table.
“Under your childhood home.”
I stared at her.
“My house?”
“Yes.”
“My house doesn’t have a basement.”
“It does.”
I felt a chill crawl across my back.
“I’ve lived there for eight years.”
“I know.”
“You’re telling me there’s a hidden room underneath it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your father built it for you.”
I couldn’t speak.
Claire leaned closer.
“He knew one day you’d remember.”
I looked at the key.
Then at the photograph.
Then at the message from Evelyn.
Something suddenly clicked.
“The hotel room.”
Claire nodded.
“It wasn’t where Evelyn came to meet someone.”
“Then what was it?”
“It was where she received instructions.”
“From my father?”
“No.”
“From Michael.”
I stared at her.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It will.”
Claire stood.
“We have to get back to your house.”
“Why?”
“Because if Michael is alive…”
She stopped.
I waited.
“If Michael is alive, then the person you’ve been calling your wife may not be Evelyn.”
My blood ran cold.
“Then who is she?”
Claire looked directly into my eyes.
“I don’t know.”
We left the diner.
Outside, the night air was colder.
We walked toward my car.
Before I could open the door, headlights appeared behind us.
A black sedan.
It stopped.
The rear window lowered.
Evelyn was sitting inside.
She looked directly at me.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then she stepped out.
She wasn’t holding a weapon.
She wasn’t crying.
She simply looked at Claire.
“You told him.”
Claire stepped forward.
“He deserved to know.”
Evelyn looked at me.
“I wanted to tell you myself.”
“Then tell me now.”
She nodded.
“I lied about one thing.”
“What?”
She took a deep breath.
“I never came to this hotel to recover Sarah’s memories.”
I stared at her.
“Then why did you come?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Because Michael was sending me messages.”
My heart stopped.
“Michael?”
She nodded.
“For six months.”
“Where is he?”
She looked at me.
Then at Claire.
Then whispered:
“He’s been living in your house.”
I couldn’t move.
Evelyn stepped closer.
“He’s been watching you every night.”
My phone vibrated again.
Unknown number.
One final message appeared.
Don’t believe her.
Then a photograph loaded.
It showed my bedroom.
Taken from inside my own house.
My bed was visible.
And standing beside it was a man who looked exactly like me.
Under the photograph was one sentence.
I was wondering when you’d finally come home.
