We drove through the night.
No headlights. No music.
Only the hum of tires on wet tarmac and the silence between us — thick, unspoken, electric.
James had sent a coded alert to his underground team — the only people he still trusted — to secure the penthouse and trace the digital breach. Meanwhile, we headed for the only place that could answer everything.
Redwood Heights.
I thought it would be a place that no longer existed — some lost facility abandoned years ago.
But I was wrong.
"It's still active," James said as we turned off the motorway. "At least on paper, it's a mental rehabilitation center. Privately funded. Untouched by government eyes."
"Who owns it?"
"Windsor Group. Through four shell companies."
Of course.
The forest thickened around us, and soon a tall iron gate appeared, shrouded by trees and fog. A weathered sign read:
> Redwood Heights Care Center – Private Access Only
We parked a mile out, walking the rest of the way through the woods in silence.
The moon hung low, veiled by heavy clouds.
When we reached the back perimeter, James pulled aside a panel of rusted fencing.
"In and out," he said. "No hero moves. We get the records, verify the truth, and get out."
I nodded, every nerve in my body tense.
Inside, the facility was colder than I imagined — sterile halls lined with flickering lights, faint echoes of voices behind locked doors. The smell of disinfectant masked something older.
We crept through the lower corridors, James disabling two security cameras with small black scramblers.
At last, we found it: Archive Room C.
James picked the lock like he'd done it a hundred times — and maybe he had.
We stepped inside.
Rows upon rows of files. Boxes stacked to the ceiling. Every folder marked with case numbers and false names.
"I'll look for Moore," I whispered. "You check the patient logs."
Minutes passed. Dust clung to my lungs. I found file after file of patients with missing identities — until finally, I froze.
A folder marked:
> S. Moore – Classified – Code RH0149
I pulled it out and opened the worn file.
And then I stopped breathing.
Inside were photos. Handwritten notes. One was dated two days before my mother's death.
> "Subject remains uncooperative. Refuses to name father. Child reported missing from file. Handler expresses concern that patient may have hidden baby prior to arrival. Recommend termination to prevent exposure."
Tears blurred my vision.
"James," I choked. "They knew. They knew I existed."
He turned to me just as I read the next page.
There was a photo attached.
Of a man.
Blond hair. Sharpened features. Cold eyes.
> Subject of Interest: Richard Hale
Status: Unknown. Suspected father of child. Ex-Windsor executive.
"Richard Hale," I whispered. "My biological father?"
James was silent. But his eyes were fixed on the name too.
He took the file from me slowly, flipping through it again.
"This man used to work under my father," James said. "But he disappeared years ago."
"Why would my mother hide me from him?" I asked.
"Because she was afraid."
Suddenly, the room darkened.
The lights cut out.
A cold, mechanical voice echoed through the hallway:
> "Unauthorized entry detected. Security has been dispatched."
James grabbed my arm. "Time's up."
We shoved the files into a bag, bolting out the door and racing down the corridor.
I could hear footsteps now. Heavy. Armed. Trained.
We ducked into a side wing, slipping through the fire exit just as searchlights began to sweep the back grounds.
Once we were deep in the woods again, James slowed, catching his breath.
"You okay?" he asked.
"No," I whispered. "But I will be."
We didn't speak for the rest of the walk.
We didn't need to.
I had a name now.
Richard Hale.
And something told me…
My mother wasn't the only one who ran from him.