I looked at Samuel. “You’re getting moved.” “Caleb—” “I’m not arguing.” Samuel was too weak to fight me. Elena agreed. The hospital transferred him to another room under a confidential patient designation. Only Elena and I were given the new room number. Even Rachel wasn’t told. Especially Rachel. While nurses prepared Samuel for transfer, I looked again at the photograph of Laura and Robert Mercer. Laura didn’t appear restrained. She wasn’t tied up. There was no visible weapon. But she wasn’t smiling either. Her face looked pale. Terrified. Behind them was part of a building. Brick wall. Green door. A small brass plaque. I enlarged the image. Most of the lettering blurred. But one word was visible. HALE. “Elena.” She looked over. I showed her. “Could that be one of Rebecca’s properties?” “Possibly.” “Can you identify it?” “I’ll have my investigator check.” Samuel heard us. “There was an old Hale property outside Nederland.” “What kind?” “A mountain house.” “Did Rebecca live there?” “When she was young.” “Address?” “I don’t remember.” Elena immediately began typing. I called Laura.

Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
I texted:
LAURA, IT’S CALEB. PLEASE CALL ME. I KNOW ABOUT ANNA.
I stared at the screen.
Delivered.
No response.
Then something occurred to me.
“How old does Laura think she is?”
“Forty-five,” Elena said.
“But she’s thirty-four.”
“Thirty-five in December,” Samuel corrected weakly.
Her entire life had been moved backward by ten years.
“Why make her older?”
Elena thought for a moment.
“To make it harder to connect her to Rebecca’s delivery.”
Exactly.
Nobody looking for a baby born December 14, 1991 would investigate a woman supposedly born in 1981.
Whoever created Laura Bennett had buried Anna Hale beneath an entire decade.
My phone rang.
Rachel.
I declined it.
She called again.
I declined that too.
Then a message arrived.
RACHEL: Laura called me.
I immediately called Rachel back.
She answered before the first ring finished.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said she called.”
“She did.”
“When?”
“Two minutes ago.”
“What did she say?”
“She asked whether you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That she might be your sister.”
“Might?”
“Caleb, Margaret told her yesterday. Laura doesn’t know what to believe.”
“Did she mention Mercer?”
Rachel went silent.
“Rachel.”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She called him Uncle Robert.”
Samuel heard it.
His eyes widened.
“Uncle?”
I put Rachel on speaker.
“Explain.”
“Laura says Robert Mercer has been part of her life since childhood.”
Elena stared at the phone.
“He supposedly died twenty years ago.”
“Well, apparently he didn’t.”
“Where is Laura now?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Why?”
“Because Mercer told her Samuel is dangerous.”
I looked at my father.
Samuel shut his eyes.
Of course.
The same pattern.
Rebecca had been called unstable.
Samuel had been painted as dangerous.
Anyone threatening the secret became the villain.
“What exactly did Mercer tell Laura?”
“That Samuel kidnapped you as a baby.”
Samuel’s eyes opened.
“What?”
Rachel continued.
“He told Laura that Rebecca surrendered you because Samuel was violent.”
“That’s a lie.”
Samuel’s voice was weak but furious.
Rachel heard him.
“He’s there?”
“Yes.”
“You put me on speaker with him?”
“Rachel, focus.”
“Caleb, this is exactly what I was afraid of.”
“No. What you were afraid of was me learning the truth.”
“I was afraid because I didn’t know which truth was real!”
That silenced me.
Rachel began crying.
“When I found Margaret, she told me one version. Then I found Rebecca’s estate letters and they said something different. Samuel’s records said something else. Mercer contacted me after I started asking questions.”
I froze.
“Mercer contacted you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
“You’ve been talking to him for eight months?”
“I didn’t know who he really was at first.”
“What name did he use?”
“Robert Bennett.”
Elena started writing.
“Did you meet him?”
“Twice.”
“Where?”
“Once at Margaret’s nursing home. Once at a restaurant.”
“And you never told me?”
“He showed me documents saying Samuel wasn’t your father.”
“But DNA proves he is.”
“I know that now!”
Rachel’s voice broke.
“That’s why I panicked when I saw the red folder. Everything I had been told started falling apart.”
“Then why burn it?”
“Because one page had my signature on it.”
My chest tightened.
“What did you sign?”
Rachel went silent.
“What did you sign, Rachel?”
“A confidentiality agreement.”
“With Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He told me if I exposed Laura’s identity before they verified everything, Laura could lose an inheritance.”
“Whose inheritance?”
“Margaret’s.”
I looked at Elena.
She shook her head slightly.
Something didn’t fit.
“How much?”
“About six million.”
“And you believed him?”
“At first.”
“At first?”
“Then I discovered Rebecca’s estate.”
The eighteen million dollars.
“And?”
“Rebecca’s will contained a clause.”
“What clause?”
“If her missing daughter was ever found alive, the estate was supposed to be divided equally between both children.”
Me and Anna.
Nine million each.
“So hiding Laura’s identity would actually keep me as sole beneficiary.”
“Yes.”
“Then why hide Rebecca from me?”
Rachel started crying harder.
“Because Mercer told me something else.”
“What?”
“He said if you learned about Rebecca, you would eventually discover what happened to Anna.”
“That was the point.”
“No, Caleb.”
Rachel lowered her voice.
“He said if Laura was identified as Anna, there would be a criminal investigation.”
“There should be.”
“And my grandmother would go to prison.”
There it was.
Family loyalty.
She had protected Margaret.
“You chose your grandmother over me.”
“I barely knew what to believe!”
“You intercepted my mail.”
“I know.”
“You pretended to be me.”
“I know.”
“You kept my biological mother’s death from me.”
“I know.”
“And then you tried destroying evidence.”
Rachel sobbed.
“I know.”
I felt strangely calm.
Maybe because the betrayal had become too large for anger.
“We’ll deal with our marriage later.”
“Caleb—”
“Right now, tell me everything about Mercer.”
She inhaled shakily.
“He doesn’t live under that name anymore.”
“What name?”
“Robert Bennett.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“You met him twice.”
“He always chose the location.”
“Phone number?”
“Blocked.”
“Email?”
Rachel hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Send it to Elena.”
“I will.”
“And Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“If you delete one thing before sending it, we’re done.”
Another silence.
Then she whispered, “I understand.”
I ended the call.
Samuel stared at me.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Rachel.”
I looked at him.
“Don’t.”
“She wouldn’t be involved in any of this if—”
“Dad, she made her own choices.”
He nodded slowly.
Then his face tightened with pain.
I moved closer.
“You okay?”
“Just tired.”
A nurse entered and checked his monitors.
She told us he needed rest.
I wanted answers, but I wanted my father alive more.
“We’re leaving,” I said.
Samuel grabbed my hand.
“Where?”
“St. Catherine’s.”
“No.”
“Margaret knows where Laura is.”
“Caleb, wait for the police.”
“The police can meet us there.”
Elena nodded.
“I’ll contact them.”
Samuel still wouldn’t release my hand.
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
I looked down.
“What now?”
“When Rebecca came to the house in 1994, she said one thing about Anna that I dismissed.”
“What?”
“She said Charles didn’t choose the family who received her.”
“Then who did?”
“Margaret.”
Rachel’s grandmother.
“Why?”
“Rebecca believed Margaret had been planning it before you were even born.”
My stomach tightened.
“Planning what?”
Samuel’s eyes met mine.
“Taking one of the twins.”
I stared at him.
“Why would she want Anna?”
“I don’t know.”
“But Rebecca thought she did?”
“Yes.”
I remembered the payment.
$250,000.
Placement completed.
Maybe Margaret hadn’t simply been paid to arrange the transaction.
Maybe the money had been payment for something else.
“Rest,” I told Samuel.
“Caleb.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Elena and I left under security escort.
Forty minutes later, we reached St. Catherine’s Assisted Living.
Two police officers met us outside.
The administrator looked nervous when we asked for Margaret Bennett.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “There must be some confusion.”
“What confusion?”
“We don’t have a Margaret Bennett residing here.”
I showed her Rachel’s photograph.
“This woman.”
The administrator stared at it.
Recognition crossed her face.
“That’s Margaret.”
“So she does live here.”
“No.”
My patience disappeared.
“You just recognized her.”
“I recognize the resident, but her name isn’t Margaret Bennett.”
Elena stepped forward.
“What name does she use?”
The administrator checked her computer.
“Margaret Mercer.”
I looked at Elena.
Mercer.
“Room 317?”
“Yes.”
“Is she there?”
The administrator called the nurses’ station.
Her expression changed.
“What?”
She hung up.
“Ms. Mercer checked out this afternoon.”
My stomach dropped.
“With whom?”
“I’ll check.”
She typed.
Then stopped.
“That’s strange.”
“What?”
“The checkout authorization was signed by her husband.”
“Husband?”
Samuel had told me Margaret’s husband died decades ago.
“What name?”
The administrator turned the monitor slightly.
AUTHORIZED PARTY:
ROBERT MERCER.
Elena and I looked at each other.
He hadn’t simply survived.
Margaret and Robert were married.
“When did they leave?”
“Approximately forty-five minutes ago.”
“Do you have cameras?”
“Yes.”
Police requested the footage.
Minutes later, we were watching Margaret being wheeled through the lobby.
Robert Mercer pushed the chair.
He was unmistakably the man in the photograph with Laura.
But there was someone else walking beside them.
A woman wearing dark glasses.
I leaned closer.
“Can you zoom?”
The administrator enlarged the image.
The woman’s face became clearer.
Elena whispered, “Do you know her?”
I did.
But it made absolutely no sense.
I had seen her hundreds of times in old photographs.
On my father’s mantel.
In my childhood albums.
In the framed portrait that had hidden the red folder.
I couldn’t breathe.
“No.”
The woman removed her glasses for barely two seconds while signing something at reception.
That was enough.
Same eyes.
Same jaw.
Same small scar above the right eyebrow.
Older now.
But unmistakable.
My mother.
Diane Wright.
The woman I had buried seventeen years ago.
The administrator looked at me.
“Sir, are you all right?”
I pointed at the screen.
“Who is that woman?”
She checked the visitor log.
Her finger moved across the page.
Then stopped.
“She’s registered as Diana Mercer.”
I stared at the security footage.
My mother was alive.
And forty-five minutes earlier, she had walked out of the building beside the two people connected to the disappearance of my twin sister.
My phone buzzed.
Laura.
Only three words appeared.
LAURA: Caleb, she’s alive.
Then another message.
LAURA: Diane isn’t your mother.
And before I could respond, a third arrived.
LAURA: She’s ours.

PART 7 — THE WOMAN WE BURIED

I read Laura’s message three times. Diane isn’t your mother. She’s ours. My fingers went numb around the phone. Elena was still staring at the security footage. “Caleb?” I handed her the phone. She read Laura’s messages. Then she looked back at the woman on the screen. “Call Laura.” I did. Straight to voicemail. Again. Voicemail. I typed: ME: WHAT DO YOU MEAN “OURS”? Delivered. No response. “Get the visitor records,” Elena told one of the officers. The administrator pulled up everything associated with “Diana Mercer.” She had visited Margaret six times during the previous three months. Every visit lasted between forty minutes and two hours. But the seventh entry was different. Yesterday. Diana Mercer had arrived at 9:12 a.m. Laura Bennett arrived at 9:47. Robert Mercer arrived at 10:03. Rachel arrived at 10:31. All four had been inside St. Catherine’s on the same morning. I stared at the screen. Rachel had lied again. She told me Laura called her yesterday after Margaret revealed the adoption. She hadn’t mentioned being there herself. “Print everything,” the officer said.

The administrator nodded. I called Rachel. No answer. Again. Nothing. Then my phone buzzed. LAURA: Don’t call Rachel. My heart accelerated. ME: WHERE ARE YOU? The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Finally: LAURA: Somewhere safe. ME: WHAT DID YOU MEAN ABOUT DIANE? This time Laura answered immediately. LAURA: I found Rebecca’s photographs. ME: WHAT PHOTOGRAPHS? LAURA: Pregnancy photos. Another message. LAURA: Diane is in them. Then a photograph appeared. I opened it. Three young women stood beside a lake. One was Rebecca. I recognized her from the photograph in Samuel’s envelope. The second woman was Margaret. Much younger, but unmistakable. And the third was Diane. My mother. Rebecca was visibly pregnant. Diane had one arm around her shoulders. They weren’t strangers. They knew each other. I enlarged the photograph. On the back, someone had written: THE THREE OF US — AUGUST 1991. My chest tightened. Samuel had told me Diane helped him find Rebecca after I was born. He had never said Diane already knew her. Maybe Samuel hadn’t known. Laura sent another. This one showed Rebecca and Diane alone. Rebecca’s hands rested over her pregnant stomach. Diane was laughing. On the back: DIANE SAYS SHE CAN ALREADY TELL THERE ARE TWO. Two. She knew about the twins before we were born. “Oh, God,” Elena whispered. My phone rang. Laura. I answered instantly. “Laura?” “Don’t say my name.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Where are you?” “I can’t tell you.” “Are you safe?” “For now.” “What does your message mean? You said Diane is ours.” Laura began crying. “I thought Margaret was losing her mind yesterday.” “What did she tell you?” “That my entire life was manufactured.” “I know about Anna.” Silence. “You know?” “I know you’re probably my twin sister.” Laura inhaled sharply. “Caleb, it isn’t probably.” My throat tightened. “You did a DNA test?” “Yes.” “When?” “Three months ago.” “What?” “Rachel arranged it.” Another lie from my wife. “What did it show?” “We’re full siblings.” I closed my eyes. Full siblings. Not cousins. Not some bizarre coincidence. Twins. My sister was alive. “Laura—” “My name isn’t Laura.” Her voice broke. “It never was.” I couldn’t find words. “Anna.” She started sobbing. Something inside me broke too. “Anna.” Neither of us spoke for several seconds. Thirty-five years disappeared in one word. Then I remembered her message. “Tell me about Diane.” Anna became quiet. “Margaret says Rebecca wasn’t our biological mother.” I froze. “What?” “Rebecca carried us, but the eggs weren’t hers.” I looked at Elena. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying Rebecca was a surrogate.” “That doesn’t make sense. This was 1991.” “Surrogacy existed, Caleb.” “For whom?” Anna’s next words were almost inaudible. “For Diane.” My legs weakened. I sat down. “No.” “Margaret says Diane couldn’t carry a pregnancy.” Samuel had told me my mother could never have children. That was why adopting me had seemed natural. But this changed everything. “So Diane was our biological mother?” “Yes.” “And Samuel?” “Biological father.” The room disappeared around me. Samuel and Diane. The two people who had raised me. They were both my biological parents. Rebecca had carried us. Then why had Rebecca been listed as my biological mother? Why had Samuel needed an adoption? Why had Diane adopted me? None of it made sense. “Where did the embryos come from?” “Margaret says there was a private fertility arrangement.” “Why Rebecca?” “She needed money.” My stomach turned. “And Charles?” “Charles found out after she was pregnant.” Rebecca’s father. “He wanted control.” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because the agreement wasn’t legal the way it had been handled.” I looked at Elena. She was listening carefully. Anna continued. “Rebecca changed her mind.” “About what?” “Giving us to Samuel and Diane.” My heart sank. “She wanted to keep us?” “Yes.” Now the entire tragedy looked different. Rebecca hadn’t merely been a biological mother surrendering her children. She had carried two babies for nine months and decided she couldn’t walk away. “Charles supported her?” Anna laughed bitterly. “No. Charles saw an opportunity.” “What opportunity?” “To sell one baby and use the other to control everyone involved.” I closed my eyes. “Anna, where did you learn this?” “Margaret.” “Why should we believe her?” “We shouldn’t.” That answer surprised me. “She admits she lied. She admits she took money. She admits she helped falsify documents.” “Then why trust anything?” “Because she gave me something.” “What?” “A cassette tape.” My heart began pounding. “Of whom?” “Rebecca.” “When?” “1994.” The year Rebecca came to Samuel’s house. “What does she say?” Anna hesitated. “You need to hear it yourself.” “Send it.” “I can’t. It’s an original cassette.” “Then bring it to me.” “I’m trying.” A sound came through the phone. A door closing. Anna stopped speaking. “Anna?” “Quiet.” I stood. “What happened?” “Someone’s here.” “Where are you?” No answer. “Anna, tell me where you are.” I heard footsteps through the phone. Then a man’s voice in the distance. “Laura?” Robert Mercer. I recognized the voice from the short security recording the administrator had played. Anna whispered, “He found me.” “Call the police.” “I can’t.” “Why?” “Because I don’t know which officers he knows.” “Anna, listen to me—” The line went dead. “Damn it!” I immediately called back. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. I turned to the officers. “My sister may be in danger.” One officer was already radioing dispatch. “Can you locate her phone?” “Not without emergency authorization, but we can move quickly if there’s an imminent threat.” “There is.” I showed him the threatening messages from the unknown number. He photographed the screen. Elena looked at me. “We also need to tell Samuel.” I called the hospital. The nurse transferred me to his new room. “Dad.” “Caleb?” His voice sounded exhausted. “Did you find Margaret?” “She left.” “With Mercer.” Silence. “Dad, I need to ask you something.” “What?” “Did you and Diane use Rebecca as a surrogate?” Nothing. “Dad?” “Who told you that?” “Anna.” Another silence. “You found her?” “Laura is Anna. DNA confirmed it.” I heard Samuel begin crying. “My God.” “She says Diane was our biological mother.” Samuel didn’t respond. “Dad, is that true?” “I don’t know.” “How can you not know?” “Because Diane told me the embryos failed.” I froze. “What?” “We tried.” His voice trembled. “Once.” “With Rebecca?” “Yes.” “You knew her?” “I knew Rebecca had agreed to carry a child for us, but the clinic told us the transfer failed.” “Who told you?” “Robert Mercer handled the paperwork.” Of course. “And Diane?” “She told me Rebecca had disappeared afterward.” “But she hadn’t.” “No.” “Dad, Rebecca became pregnant.” Samuel began breathing harder. “I never knew.” “Then when Rebecca told you years later that I was yours—” “I thought we’d had an affair.” That stopped me. “What?” Samuel sounded ashamed. “After the failed surrogacy, Rebecca and I met once. We were both upset. Diane and I had temporarily separated.” “You slept with Rebecca?” “Yes.” “So when she later said I was yours—” “I believed you had been conceived naturally.” “And Diane still agreed to raise me?” “Yes.” My head hurt. “But if the embryo transfer actually worked, you and Diane were my biological parents all along.” “Yes.” “And Anna too.” “Yes.” I pressed my fingers against my forehead. “Did Diane know?” “I don’t know.” But I thought she did. Those pregnancy photographs proved she had remained in contact with Rebecca. “Dad, Diane is alive.” Silence. Complete silence. Then Samuel whispered, “Don’t.” “I saw her.” “No.” “Security footage.” “Caleb.” “She left St. Catherine’s with Margaret and Mercer less than an hour ago.” “No.” His voice cracked. “I buried her.” “I know.” “I saw her body.” That made me freeze. “You saw the body?” “Yes.” “At the funeral home?” “Yes.” “Was there an autopsy?” “No. She supposedly died from an aneurysm.” An aneurysm. Exactly what Samuel had nearly died from today. A coincidence maybe. But after everything else, I trusted coincidences about as much as I trusted Rachel. “Who identified Diane?” “I did.” “Anyone else?” “Rachel’s grandmother.” My skin went cold. “Margaret?” “Yes.” Of course. “Dad, think carefully. Was there anything unusual about the funeral?” Samuel was silent for several seconds. “She insisted on a closed casket.” “Who?” “Margaret.” “Why?” “She said Diane had deteriorated after death.” “Did you see her before the casket was closed?” “Yes.” “And you’re certain it was Diane?” Samuel hesitated. That hesitation was everything. “Dad?” “She looked different.” “How?” “Swollen.” “Could it have been someone else?” “I don’t know.” “Did you touch her?” “No.” “Did anyone perform DNA identification?” “No.” Elena was already writing notes. “We need the death certificate,” she whispered. I asked Samuel, “Who signed Diane’s death certificate?” “I don’t remember.” “Think.” “I can’t.” “Dad.” “Wait.” I heard him moving. Then he went silent. “Oh, God.” “What?” “I remember.” “Who?” Samuel’s voice became almost inaudible. “The attending physician was Dr. Jonathan Hale.” Hale. My stomach dropped. “Related to Charles?” “His younger brother.” Every road led back to the Hale family. I ended the call after making Samuel promise to tell security nobody except Elena or me could enter. Then Elena requested public vital records through her office. While we waited, I kept calling Anna. Nothing. Ten minutes later, Elena received the death certificate electronically from her investigator. She opened it. DIANE MARIE WRIGHT. Date of death: May 4, 2009. Cause: ruptured cerebral aneurysm. Attending physician: Jonathan Hale, M.D. But another line caught Elena’s attention. “Caleb.” “What?” “Place of death.” I looked. PRIVATE RESIDENCE. “That’s wrong.” “What do you mean?” “My mother died in a hospital.” “You’re sure?” “I drove there.” “Which hospital?” “St. Vincent’s.” Elena searched. “There was no St. Vincent’s Hospital in Boulder in 2009.” I stared at her. “No. I remember the sign.” “Could it have been a private clinic?” I closed my eyes. I had been eighteen. Terrified. Samuel had called me at college. I drove through the night. By the time I arrived, Diane was supposedly already dead. I had been taken to a small medical facility. Not an emergency department. Not a major hospital. A private building. I had never questioned it. “Jonathan Hale owned a private surgical center,” Elena said. “Where?” She turned the laptop toward me. The address appeared. I knew it. Not because I had visited recently. Because the brick building in the photograph of Anna and Mercer had the same address. The building with the brass HALE plaque. My phone suddenly rang. Anna. I answered. “Anna!” No response. Then breathing. “Anna?” A man’s voice came through. “Caleb Wright.” Mercer. “Where is my sister?” “She isn’t your sister.” “DNA says otherwise.” “DNA says many things when people don’t understand what they’re testing.” “Put her on.” “No.” “Then I’m calling the police.” “You’ve already done that.” My blood chilled. He knew. “What do you want?” “For this to stop.” “Too late.” “No, Caleb. It isn’t.” His voice remained calm. “Walk away from Rebecca’s estate. Stop speaking to Margaret. Convince Samuel to destroy whatever copies he has.” “And Anna?” “Laura goes home and continues her life.” “Her life is a lie.” “Most lives contain lies.” “You stole her.” “I saved her.” “From whom?” Mercer paused. “From Diane.” That answer surprised me. “What are you talking about?” “You think Diane Wright was a victim because Samuel loved her.” “I didn’t say that.” “You think Charles Hale orchestrated everything.” “Didn’t he?” “Charles was greedy. Cruel. Controlling.” Mercer lowered his voice. “But he wasn’t the person who decided the twins had to be separated.” My mouth went dry. “Who did?” “You already know.” “No.” “Diane.” I stopped breathing. “Why would their biological mother separate them?” “Because only one embryo was supposed to survive.” “What does that mean?” Mercer laughed softly. “You still think there were two embryos transferred.” I looked at Elena. “What are you saying?” “One embryo was Samuel and Diane’s.” My heart pounded. “And the other?” Mercer became silent. “Whose was the other embryo?” Before he could answer, I heard Anna screaming in the background. “DON’T BELIEVE HIM, CALEB!” Then a crash. “ANNA!” The line went dead. I immediately called back. Nothing. Elena grabbed my arm. “Caleb.” “What?” She was staring at her laptop. Her investigator had just sent another document. A fertility-clinic laboratory record from 1991. Two embryos had indeed been transferred into Rebecca. But they weren’t created from the same parents. Embryo A: Samuel Wright. Diane Parker. Embryo B: Samuel Wright. Donor identification restricted. I stared at the screen. Anna and I shared the same biological father. But according to the original fertility record, we had different biological mothers. The DNA test saying we were full siblings suddenly made no sense. Unless the fertility record itself was another lie. Then a new message arrived from Anna’s number. A photograph. It showed the old Hale clinic. Beneath it was one sentence. ANNA: Basement. Hurry. And in the corner of the photograph, reflected in a glass door, stood Diane. Alive. Watching whoever held Anna’s phone.

Click Here to continuous Read​​​​ Full Ending StoryPART 8 —  THE BASEMENT WHERE EVERYTHING BEGAN