Then Hayes spoke again, quietly.
"Your father begged me to leave you out of this."
Daniel's blood ran cold.
"What did you do to him?"
Hayes leaned closer.
"I gave him a choice."
"What choice?"
Hayes smiled faintly.
"His career... or his son."
Daniel left the facility with more questions than answers.
But before he reached his car, a message arrived from Rebecca.
It contained a photograph.
An old newspaper clipping.
The headline read:
LOCAL POLICE OFFICER DIES IN SUSPICIOUS HOUSE FIRE. INVESTIGATION CLOSED.
The officer's name was Thomas Carter.
Daniel's father.
Beneath the photograph was a handwritten sentence.
Your father didn't die in an accident.
Rebecca Mitchell was waiting in a small coffee shop on the outskirts of the city.
Daniel recognized her immediately.
She looked to be in her early forties, with dark hair tied behind her head and tired eyes that suggested she had spent many nights without sleep.
When Daniel approached, she placed a thick envelope on the table.
"Before you ask anything," she said, "you need to understand that my father isn't the only person who lost someone."
Daniel sat down.
"What happened twenty years ago?"
Rebecca opened the envelope.
Inside were newspaper articles, photographs, police reports, and handwritten notes.
"My father was a detective before he became a private investigator. He was working with your father on a case involving Saint Mary's Hospital."
She showed him an old photograph.
The hospital had been closed for years, but the building was still standing.
"Officially, it was a maternity hospital. Unofficially, certain people were using it to move newborn children into private adoption networks."
Daniel looked through the documents.
"Why?"
"Money. Influence. Some wealthy families wanted children but didn't want the legal process. Others wanted to hide pregnancies. There were people willing to pay enormous amounts to make problems disappear."
"How many children?"
Rebecca shook her head.
"We don't know. The records were destroyed."
She showed him another document.
It was a list of names.
Some were crossed out.
Others had question marks beside them.
At the bottom was a name Daniel recognized.
Michael Carter.
"Your brother wasn't the only child taken," Rebecca continued. "My younger brother disappeared too."
Daniel looked up.
"David?"
Rebecca nodded.
"My father spent twenty years searching for him. He never stopped believing David was alive."
"Why didn't he go to the authorities?"
"He did. Three times."
She placed three official complaint letters on the table.
"All three investigations were closed within days."
Daniel examined the signatures.
Richard Hayes had approved two of them.
The third was signed by Thomas Carter.
"Your father was forced to sign," Rebecca explained. "He later confessed that he had been threatened."
Daniel leaned back.
"Why did nobody expose this?"
"Because the people involved weren't ordinary criminals. They had connections in hospitals, courts, police departments, and private adoption agencies."
Rebecca reached into her bag and removed a small cassette recorder.
"My father recorded conversations before everything went wrong."
She pressed play.
Static filled the room.
Then a man's voice emerged.
"We've moved the Carter boy. The Mitchell child is still causing problems. We need to deal with him before he reaches the press."
Another voice responded.
"What about Thomas?"
"Thomas knows too much."
Daniel recognized the first voice.
It belonged to Captain Hayes.
The second voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't identify it.
Rebecca stopped the recording.
"That's why my father was arrested last night."
Daniel looked at her.
"What happened to your mother?"
Rebecca's expression changed.
"She died six years ago. Officially, a heart attack."
"Unofficially?"
Rebecca looked toward the window.
"She received a visit from someone three days before she died. After that, she refused to leave the house."
Daniel felt a cold sensation move through his chest.
"Do you know who visited her?"
Rebecca nodded.
"Richard Hayes."
That afternoon, Daniel returned to the department.
He went directly to the evidence archive and requested access to the Saint Mary's investigation.
The records clerk searched for several minutes.
Then she shook her head.
"There's nothing under that case number."
Daniel gave her the number again.
She typed it carefully.
A warning appeared.
RESTRICTED ACCESS. ARCHIVED BY ORDER OF THE POLICE COMMISSIONER.
Daniel frowned.
"Who authorized it?"
The clerk turned the monitor toward him.
A digital signature appeared.
Captain Richard Hayes.
Daniel quietly took a photograph of the screen.
He had barely left the archive when his phone rang.
It was Rebecca.
"Daniel, you need to come back."
"What's wrong?"
"My father called."
"From detention?"
"No. Someone called me using his phone."
Daniel stopped walking.
"What did they say?"
Rebecca's voice trembled.
"They said if we continue looking into Saint Mary's, they'll bury us with the truth."
A pause.
Then she whispered:
"Daniel, I think they know where Michael is."
Before Daniel could answer, the call disconnected.
He immediately called her back.
No answer.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
Then a text message appeared.
Don't come looking for me.
Daniel stared at the screen.
A second message arrived.
They found me.
When Daniel reached Rebecca's apartment, the front door was open.
The living room had been turned upside down.
Drawers were pulled out. Documents were scattered across the floor. A broken photograph lay near the entrance.
Rebecca was gone.
On the kitchen table sat a single envelope.
Inside was a photograph of a man in his twenties.
On the back were three words.
Your brother is alive.
Daniel knew he couldn't trust anyone inside the department.
He also knew that searching for Rebecca without help would be dangerous.
There was only one person he believed might help him.
Officer Marcus Reed.
Marcus had been Daniel's partner for almost five years. He was forty years old, calm under pressure, and one of the few officers who had never been interested in promotions or politics.