“Who is this?” I asked, my grip tightening on the plastic casing.

“It’s Dr. Mercer,” the man whispered. “They let me make one call before the transfer.”

I stood up, stepping away from the children, toward the dark window.

“I have nothing to say to you, Mercer,” I said.

“You need to listen to me,” Mercer said, his voice cracking with panic. “The files they took from my office… they didn’t get the secure drive.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Your mother didn’t just pay me to change your records, Adrian,” Mercer said.

Outside, the wind howled through the pines, rattling the glass.

“There was a second test,” Mercer whispered. “Six months ago. She knew the truth before she died.”

“What truth?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

The wind outside rattled the window frame again, shaking the old wooden house.

“The DNA,” Mercer rasped, his voice cutting through the static. “She had a private investigator retrieve hair samples from the twins when they were toddlers, during their brief visit to Boston.”

“She knew,” I said, the words heavy and cold in my throat.