She leaned into his shoulder. “Thank you for not walking away tonight.” Morning brought a new message.
Harris kept his word. The remaining funds hit Sarah’s account. Sarah was already awake.
She sat at her laptop, scouring ten-year-old news archives. “Found an article about the crash,” she said, not turning. “And a photo from the scene.
Look.” The image showed a flipped car and medics in scrubs. In the background, a redheaded woman was faintly visible.
“Maybe start with the hospital’s HR department?” James suggested. “Already sent a request, waiting for a reply.”
Lily came back for breakfast. Stepping into the kitchen, she stopped, eyeing her parents. “What’s wrong? You guys look… weird.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” James pulled out a chair. “We need to tell you a story.”
“About Uncle Kevin?” Lily looked at her mom. “I saw you crying over his photos last night.”
“You were awake?” “Woke up, heard voices, then saw you in the living room with the album.” “Yes, honey. About Uncle Kevin.
And your cousin.” They told Lily everything. About that tragic day, about Kevin, about the recent events with Harris.
She listened silently, her eyes growing wide. “So, I might have a brother?” she asked finally. “Alive?” “We don’t know for sure,” James said gently.
“But we’ll search for the truth.” “I want to help,” Lily said, tossing her ponytail. “I can dig online, check social media.”
“School comes first,” Sarah reminded. “Mom, this is bigger than an algebra test.” “No, sweetie.
Everything matters, and we’re not rushing.” A week later, the hospital replied. They found the redheaded nurse’s file, Maria Grayson.
She’d quit a month after the crash. “We have an address,” Sarah showed James the document. “It’s old, though.”
“We’ll start there, go this weekend.” “Can I come?” Lily looked up from her textbook. “No, honey, your dad and I will check it first.”
That Saturday, they drove to the address. An old apartment building on Fairview’s outskirts. The lobby smelled of cats and boiled cabbage.
“Apartment 47,” James read. “Third floor.” An elderly woman opened the door.
“Who’re you looking for?” “Maria Grayson, she lived here ten years ago.” “Oh, Maria,” the woman sighed. “God rest her soul.”
Sarah gripped James’s arm. “What happened to her?” “Cancer, dear. Died three years ago.
I was her neighbor, then bought her place.” “Any relatives?” James asked. “Maybe some belongings, papers?” “Her sister took everything, moved it to her town upstate.”
They were quiet on the drive back. Another lead gone. That evening, Sarah sifted through old photos.
“Look,” she handed James a picture. “Kevin with his son, a week before the crash.” A young man held a blond toddler, both smiling.
“He’d be twelve now,” Sarah said softly. “Wonder who he looks like?” James hugged her.
“We won’t give up. There are hospital archives, police reports, we can hire a private investigator.” “The money?” “We’ll find it. I’ll sell the car.”
“But you…” “This is more important.” Sunday, Margaret came over. Seeing photos spread on the table, she sighed.
“Still searching?” “Mom,” James said suddenly. “Do you remember anyone else from that hospital? Doctors, nurses?” “Let me think.” She sat at the table.
“There was a Dr. Mitchell. Gray hair, glasses. He operated on Kevin.”
“Mitchell?” Sarah jotted down the name. “First name, middle name?” “I think Steven. Steven Daniel.
Good doctor, real attentive.” James and Sarah exchanged looks. Another thread.
By Monday evening, they found Dr. Mitchell. He still worked. At a private clinic across town.
“Book an appointment?” James offered. “No,” Sarah shook her head. “Let’s catch him after work.
It’s more honest.” They arrived at the clinic at day’s end. The elderly doctor was among the last to leave.
“Dr. Steven Mitchell,” Sarah called. “Can we talk?” He turned, squinting. “My God, Sarah? Kevin Thompson’s sister? I remember. Cases like that stick with you.”
They sat in a small café across from the clinic. Dr. Mitchell listened to Sarah’s story. “Yes, I remember that redheaded nurse,” he said when she finished.
“Maria was odd after that night. Like she’d changed.” “What happened that night?” James asked quietly.
“The boy was brought in, critical. We fought for hours, then…” He paused, staring into his cold coffee. “Then what?” “Maria was on shift.
And another nurse, Vera Nichols. She’s passed away.” He looked at Sarah.
“You deserve the truth. That boy… he survived,” Dr. Mitchell said slowly. “But the records say otherwise.”
Sarah went pale. “Why?” “That night, a family from Columbus arrived. Wealthy, influential.
Their own child was dying from a congenital heart defect.” “My God,” Sarah whispered. “I learned later.
Maria let it slip before she quit. They forged the documents. The boy was taken to Columbus.”
James squeezed Sarah’s hand tightly. “Any info on that family?” “The Ross family.” The doctor pulled out a notepad, wrote something.