Chapter 3: The Name on the File
My mother wasn't Sarah.
I stared at the dark phone.
For several seconds, I couldn't understand the sentence.
“That's not possible.””
The man didn't answer.
“That's my mother's name.””
“No,” he said.
“It's the name she has been living under.””
Dad slammed his shoulder into my bedroom door.
The chair beneath the handle scraped across the floor.
“Emily!””
I flinched.
The man said, “Listen to me.””
“Who is my mother?””
“Ask her.””
I looked at the door.
“Mom?””
No answer.
“Mom, what's your real name?””
The hallway went silent.
Dad's breathing stopped.
That scared me more than his shouting.
Then Mom spoke.
“Emily…”
Her voice cracked.
“I wanted to tell you.””
Dad said, “Sarah, don't.””
She ignored him.
“I wanted to tell you when you were old enough.””
“How old is old enough?””
She started crying.
“Emily, I'm sorry.””
I pressed my forehead against the wall.
“What is your name?””
Dad shouted, “Don't listen to her!””
Mom whispered, “My name is—”
The door exploded inward.
The chair flew backward.
I screamed and stumbled away.
Dad stood in the doorway.
His shirt was torn at the collar.
There was a red mark across his cheek.
But what terrified me most was that he wasn't angry anymore.
He looked calm.
Almost empty.
“Give me the phone,” he said.
I held it behind my back.
“I don't have it.””
Dad looked at my hands.
“You're a terrible liar.””
Mom appeared behind him.
“Ethan, please.””
He turned.
“Stay there.””
She stopped.
I looked between them.
“Mom?””
Her eyes met mine.
For one second, I saw the woman I knew.
The woman who kissed my forehead before school.
The woman who sang quietly while making pancakes.
Then I saw something else.
Fear.
Not fear of me.
Fear for me.
“Emily,” she whispered, “his name isn't Ethan either.””
The room seemed to shrink.
Dad's face changed.
“Sarah.””
Mom shook her head.
“You deserve to know.””
He stepped toward her.
“Don't.””
“Emily deserves the truth.””
I backed into my desk.
“Who are you?””
Dad didn't answer.
Mom did.
“Your father's name is Daniel.””
He looked at her like she'd betrayed him.
“Stop.””
“And mine is—”
A siren sounded outside.
Mom froze.
I turned toward the window.
Blue and red lights flashed across the ceiling.
Several dark vehicles pulled onto our street behind the police cars.
Dad looked toward the window.
All the color drained from his face.
The man on the phone spoke.
“Emily.””
I picked up the phone.
It had somehow turned itself back on.
“What?””
“Are there police outside?””
“Yes.””
“Are there black SUVs?””
I looked down.
“Yes.””
“Good.””
Dad heard me.
He stepped forward.
“Give me the phone.””
I backed away.
“No.””
“Emily.””
“No!””
He moved toward me.
Mom stepped between us.
“Don't touch her.””
Dad stared at her.
“You called them.””
“No.””
“You called them years ago.””
“I didn't.””
“You think I don't know?””
The sirens grew louder.
Someone shouted from outside.
“POLICE! OPEN THE FRONT DOOR!””
Dad looked toward the hallway.
Then back at me.
His eyes weren't angry anymore.
They were terrified.
“Emily,” he said softly, “you have to trust me.””
I shook my head.
“You hit Mom.””
“I know.””
“You hit me.””
“I know.””
“Why?””
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Mom whispered, “Because he was trying to find the people who took us.””
I stared at her.
“What people?””
She closed her eyes.
The man on the phone answered instead.
“The people your father has been running from.””
Dad lunged toward me.
Mom grabbed his arm.
“Emily, run!””
I sprinted for the hallway.
Dad pulled free.
The phone slipped from my hand and skidded across the floor.
“Emily!””
I ran downstairs.
The front door shook under a heavy knock.
“POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR!””
I reached the bottom step.
Then I saw something lying beside the kitchen table.
A folder.
It must have fallen from one of the cabinets during the struggle.
I stopped.
My name was written across it.
*EMILY CARTER*
Underneath was a date.
The date I was born.
My hands went cold.
I opened it.
The first page was a photocopy of a birth certificate.
The mother's name had been blacked out.
The father's name had been blacked out.
But beneath the black ink was a handwritten note.
*SUBJECT PLACED IN WITNESS PROTECTION AT AGE THREE.*
I stopped breathing.
Behind me, Dad shouted.
“Emily, put that down!””
I turned.
Mom was crying.
“Don't read it.””
I held up the paper.
“Why am I in witness protection?””
Neither of them answered.
The police began pounding on the front door.
Then a man's voice came from outside.
“Emily Carter! Step away from the adults and come to the front door!””
I looked at Dad.
Then Mom.
Then the folder.
My entire childhood suddenly felt like a story somebody had written for me.
And I realized I didn't know which parts were real.
The phone on the floor rang.
Once.
Twice.
I picked it up.
The same man from the hidden number spoke.
“Emily, listen carefully.””
I swallowed.
“Who are you?””
“My name is Michael.””
Dad went completely still.
Michael continued.
“Your mother was placed in witness protection because of what she saw.””
I looked at Mom.
“What did she see?””
Michael's voice dropped.
“Your father knows.””
Dad whispered one word.
“Run.””
May you like
Then the front door burst open.
And the police weren't the only people standing outside.
