“He kept track of our heights,” Thomas whispered. “Even while he was lying to both of us.”
Margaret walked over, placing her frail hand over the carved letters.
“He loved you boys in his own twisted, broken way,” she said softly. “But his pride and his fear were bigger than his love.”
John turned away from the fireplace, his jaw set.
“Where did he keep his records, Thomas? Tax papers, personal documents?”
Thomas pointed toward the staircase leading up to the second floor.
“His study upstairs. He kept it locked, but I have the master key.”
They climbed the creaking stairs together, their shadows stretching long against the walls in the flashlight’s beam.
At the top of the stairs, Thomas led them to a small door at the end of the hall.
He unlocked it and pushed it open.
The room was small, filled with heavy wooden bookshelves, an old metal filing cabinet, and a large mahogany desk covered in dusty ledgers.
John walked straight to the filing cabinet, grabbing the top handle and pulling on it.
It was locked tight.
“Key?” John asked, looking over his shoulder at Thomas.
Thomas searched through the key ring, finding a small flat brass key.
He handed it to John, who inserted it into the lock and turned it with a sharp click.
The top drawer slid open with a screech of rusty metal.
John began thumbing through the thick manila folders inside, his large fingers moving surprisingly fast through the yellowed documents.
“Tax returns... property deeds... farm equipment receipts...” John muttered, tossing files onto the desk.
At the very back of the bottom drawer, John’s hand touched a thick, dark leather binder bound with a heavy rubber band.
He pulled it out, blowing a cloud of thick dust off the cover.
“What’s that?” Margaret asked, stepping closer.
John laid the binder on the desk under the light of Thomas’s flashlight.
He snapped the brittle rubber band and opened the leather cover.
Inside were yellowed newspaper clippings, carbon-copy hospital receipts, and a series of hand-written letters sealed in official envelopes.
Thomas leaned over the desk, reading the headline of the top newspaper clipping aloud.
“OAKHAVEN CLINIC CLOSES AMID FINANCIAL INVESTIGATION - 1988”
He picked up the clipping, scanning the small print beneath the headline.
“The clinic was owned by a Dr. Richard Vance,” Thomas read, his voice growing cold. “It was shut down by the state board for fraudulent record keeping and illegal adoption practices.”
Margaret gasped, clutching her chest.
“Illegal adoptions?”
John reached down into the binder and pulled out an official-looking document stamped with a red seal.
It was a birth certificate from the State Department of Health.
At the top was the name: Thomas Edward Miller.
Across the bottom, where the seal was affixed, was a signature from Dr. Richard Vance, along with a secondary document attached to the back with a rusty paperclip.
Thomas picked up the attached document, his eyes widening as he read the typed words.
It was a private contract between Arthur Miller and Dr. Vance.
The document stated that in exchange for a payment of five thousand dollars, the clinic would issue a false death certificate for the infant born to Margaret Miller, declaring the child deceased at birth, while transferring full sole custody to Arthur Miller without the mother's consent.
“Five thousand dollars,” Thomas said, his voice flat, devoid of all feeling. “He paid a corrupt doctor five thousand dollars to steal me from my own mother.”
John slammed his heavy hand onto the desk, the wood rattling under the blow.
“That bastard,” John roared, his voice echoing through the empty house. “He bought his own son like a piece of livestock!”
Margaret dropped into the desk chair, burying her face in her hands as silent tears soaked through her fingers.
“I knew Dr. Vance was a cold man,” she sobbed. “When I asked to see Tommy, he told me it was against hospital policy for mothers to view stillborn infants. He gave me a sedative and told Arthur to take me home.”
Thomas stood frozen, staring at the typed paper in his hands.
All his life, he had served the law. He had worn the badge for fifteen years, believing in justice, structure, and truth.