Children could sometimes accept mystery as long as someone held their hand while walking through it.

Sophie climbed into the vehicle.

Marco took the lead SUV.

I rode in the second with Elena and the children.

As we drove away, I watched the estate disappear behind the falling snow.

Ten minutes later, my phone vibrated.

A message.

No number.

Only an attachment.

A photograph.

Taken from inside the nursery.

Minutes earlier.

It showed the hidden bookcase standing open.

Someone had entered after we left.

Beneath the photograph was a message.

YOU TOOK THE WRONG CHILD.

My blood went cold.

I looked across the vehicle.

Theo.

Miles.

Nora.

All three were there.

Sophie was curled beside Elena.

Four children.

All safe.

“What is it?” Elena asked.

I sent the message to Marco through the secure channel.

He called immediately.

“What does it mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could be psychological pressure.”

“Could be.”

Then another message arrived.

This one contained no words.

Only a hospital photograph.

Isabella.

Years younger.

Holding a newborn baby.

Not Theo.

Not Miles.

Not Nora.

The date printed in the corner was five years earlier.

Long before my triplets were born.

My hands started trembling.

Elena leaned closer.

“Mr. Moretti?”

I enlarged the photograph.

Isabella was crying.

Smiling.

Holding a tiny infant wrapped in a blue blanket.

Someone had written a name on the back of the printed photograph before taking a picture of it and sending it to me.

SOPHIA.

I slowly lifted my eyes.

Across the dark vehicle, four-year-old Sophie slept against Elena’s chest.

Her blonde hair spilled across her mother’s coat.

Her small hand still held the battered cloth doll Isabella had somehow placed in her path.

Elena followed my stare.

“What?”

My voice barely worked.

“Elena.”

“What is it?”

“Where was Sophie born?”

She blinked.

“Chicago.”

“What hospital?”

“Saint Catherine’s.”

“Were you there?”

Her expression changed.

“What kind of question is that?”

“Were you there when she was born?”

“I—”

She stopped.

Outside the windows, snow swept across the road.

“Elena.”

The color slowly disappeared from her face.

“I adopted Sophie.”

Everything inside me became still.

“When?”

“She was seven months old.”

“From whom?”

“Private adoption.”

“Agency?”

“Yes.”

“Name.”

“I don’t remember exactly—”

“Elena.”

“I have the documents.”

Her voice was trembling now.

“What are you saying?”

I turned the phone toward her.

She stared at the photograph.

At Isabella.

At the infant.

At the handwritten name.

SOPHIA.

Elena stopped breathing.

“No.”

Sophie shifted in her sleep.

“Mama?”

Elena immediately pulled her closer.

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

But her eyes never left the photograph.

“This isn’t possible.”

Marco’s voice came through the phone.

“Adrien.”

I raised it.

“I searched the hospital records.”

My heart hammered.

“And?”