Someone had been inside this house.Julian's words settled over the living room like a sheet of ice.Nobody moved.Nobody spoke.Dani's gaze drifted to the photograph lying on the coffee table.Two newborns.Two identification cards.Baby Cross.Baby Mitchell.And beneath them, Sarah Mitchell's chilling handwriting:One of them should be dead.Only now, Julian had confirmed the police had never found that photograph.Which meant someone had planted it.Not years ago.Today.Her stomach twisted.Every clue she'd trusted suddenly felt contaminated.Every answer was now another question.Julian picked up the photograph using an evidence sleeve before sealing it inside a plastic folder.His face had become unreadable again—that cold, calculating expression he wore whenever someone challenged him."The house is locked down," he said.His head of security nodded immediately."Every room. Every attic space. Every crawl space. Every vent. I want fingerprints, fibers, shoe prints—everything."
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