Chapter 3

At three o'clock that afternoon, the paternity results arrived.

[DNA analysis supports Aaron Scheffler as the child's biological father.]

[Probability of paternity: 99.99 percent.]

The laboratory had originally requested a sample from Vivian, but the birthmark had made me submit my own instead.

The world tilted around me.

I braced one hand against the wall to keep from collapsing.

I was the baby's father?

How was that possible?

I had never touched another woman, and I was medically infertile.

My hand moved instinctively toward my lower abdomen. Five years earlier, Vivian had been caught in a laboratory explosion. I dragged her from the fire, but a collapsing steel support crushed the lower half of my body.

The surgeons saved my life, but they said the damage to my reproductive system was permanent.

Vivian knelt beside my hospital bed and swore that only my survival mattered. Children meant nothing if she still had me.

Then what did this paternity report mean?

If I couldn't father a child, where had this baby come from?

No. It was impossible.

I slept beside Vivian every night. I would know if anything had happened.

And I had never seen her pregnant, unless...

I ran from the clinic and hailed a cab.

"Take me to Hollow Creek Estates."

The driver gave me a strange look. "That development's empty, buddy. Nobody lives out there."

"Just drive. I'll pay double," I shouted.

An hour later, the cab stopped outside the abandoned development.

Following the address from the notes, I found House 16.

Unlike the surrounding ruins, this house had sealed windows and a maintained entrance.

I pushed the door open.

A familiar trace of cologne drifted toward me.

It was my favorite scent.

When I saw the interior, my blood ran cold.

The decorating style, furniture placement, and even the color of the throw pillows matched my current home.

It was an exact copy.

The only difference was the absence of ordinary life. The house was silent as a tomb.

I walked toward the second-floor bedroom.

My legs shook with every step.

The bedroom door stood partly open.

I pushed it inward.

A framed memorial photograph rested on the cabinet directly across from me.

So that was Vivian's lover.

Anger surged through me, and I seized the frame.

The man in the photograph wore a gentle smile, his eyes crinkled with happiness.

That face...

It was mine.

The same features. The same expression.

Even the tiny beauty mark beside his eye occupied the exact same place.

I covered my mouth to keep from crying out.

Trembling, I stepped closer to the photograph.

Only then did I notice a slight difference.

His hair was longer and fell carelessly across his forehead, giving him an artistic appearance.

I had worn my hair cropped short since beginning my career and had never allowed it to grow that way.

There was no incense or ceremonial display beneath the portrait, only a thick journal resting on the table.

Two words had been written across the cover in firm handwriting.

[Elias Rowan.]

It was my handwriting.

I was certain those letters had been formed by my own hand.

But I had never heard that name. Why would I have written the name of Vivian's lover?

Fear closed over me like deep water.

Who was Elias Rowan?

Why did he look exactly like me?

Why was his handwriting identical to mine?

Why had Vivian rebuilt our home in this abandoned house?

With shaking hands, I opened the journal.