The younger boy shook his head. “We don’t have any.”
“Our Aunt Marcia left us here,” Lucas added. “She said to wait. Someone would come.”
The name hit like a gunshot.
Marcia.
Patricia’s older sister.
The one who vanished after the funeral.
Edward’s mind began assembling pieces he had never questioned. The rushed paperwork at the hospital. The brief conversation with a tired-looking administrator who had insisted there had only been one viable infant. The way Marcia had hovered during Patricia’s final weeks, whispering with doctors when Edward wasn’t in the room.
He looked at Peter.
Then at Lucas.
Then at Matthew.
Three identical faces.
A truth, long buried, was clawing its way into the light.
“Get in the car,” Edward said firmly. “No one is sleeping on the street tonight.”
The boys hesitated only a second before climbing into the back seat beside Peter. The three of them stared at one another like mirrors discovering reflections.
At home—a sprawling gated estate in River Oaks—Edward ordered food, warm baths, clean clothes. Peter chattered excitedly, oblivious to the storm gathering in his father’s mind.
Once the boys were asleep in the guest room, Edward made calls.