Chapter 14
Tori felt like she might throw up. A sister. A helpless infant murdered while still in her mother’s womb. Who could do such a thing? Who could stab a woman carrying a baby? The room swayed, and she grabbed the edges of her chair to steady herself. But there were survivors—plural.
She stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
Nikos Crew Jr., male.
A brother.
She had a brother.
Two survivors. The truth sat in her chest like a stone, too heavy to lift, too sharp to ignore.
Every foster home. Every birthday. Every Christmas morning when she’d wondered if somewhere out there was family who remembered her .
. . There had been. A boy who’d survived the same nightmare, who’d hidden somewhere in the same house while their parents bled out in their bedroom.
“Tori.” Blade’s voice sounded far away. He took his hand off her and tapped the monitor. “Look here. At the date of birth.”
She forced her eyes to focus. DOB: 04/15/1994.
April fifteenth. Her birthday.
“I have a twin . . .”
The information sent her spiraling. Not just a brother.
A twin. Someone who’d shared her mother’s womb.
Someone who’d been ripped away before she could even form memories of his face.
Her hands trembled in her lap. Years of believing she was alone, of carrying the guilt of being the only one who’d survived.
All of it, a lie.
Kiara looked at her with wide-eyed confusion. “You didn’t know? About your brother?”
“No, I never knew.” Tori’s pulse hammered against her throat. “And I never would have if you hadn’t done this. Kiara, I owe you—” She leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to Kiara’s cheek. “I owe you everything for this.”
Kiara blinked, touching her cheek where Tori’s lips had been.
Blade’s eyebrows shot up, but Tori ignored him. The peck had been pure impulse. Completely unlike her. Tori never gushed, never grabbed strangers, never let her emotions spill over like that. But something had shifted inside her. A flicker of life where emptiness used to live.
Blade directed Kiara to open another document, but Tori couldn’t pay attention.
The world around her diffused. Revelation crashed through her like a tidal wave, washing away years of understanding about herself.
All those Saturdays with Eugenio, driving through neighborhoods while Julio Iglesias crooned from the cassette player.
The inexplicable pull she’d felt, the certainty that someone was out there waiting for her.
It hadn’t been her parents she’d been searching for.
It had been him. Her twin.
The psychology textbooks had called it phantom limb syndrome for twins. The persistent sense of incompleteness. The subconscious search for the other half of yourself. She’d studied it. Written papers on it. She just never imagined she was living it.
All those drives through Little San Juan, Coconut Grove, Coral Gables. Had she passed a dark-haired boy on a bicycle? Watched him skateboard past while she pressed her face to Eugenio’s passenger window, that phantom ache tugging at her chest?
What did he look like now? Did he have their father’s Greek features or their mother’s Korean bone structure? Did he search for her the way she’d searched for him, or had he moved on, built a life without the constant ache of something missing?
“Tori.” Blade’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. He’d moved back to his chair, and she hadn’t even noticed.
“Sorry.” She wiped her palms on her jeans. “I’m here. What does it say?”
“It’s Barclay’s report.” Kiara scrolled, her lips moving as she read. “It’s marked as a supplemental report. Filed after the initial investigation.”
The timestamp showed 11:47 p.m. Late. The kind of hour when someone filed paperwork they didn’t want scrutinized during regular business hours.
“Read it out loud,” she said. “Please. I don’t think I can focus.”
Because whatever Barclay had written in those late-night hours, whatever truth he’d buried in official language and police codes, it would explain why her twin had vanished from her life.
And maybe, finally, she’d understand how to find him.
“Subject: Supplemental Report—Double Homicide, 5486 Flores Drive,” Blade read, sounding 100 percent the homicide detective.
“Responding officers discovered two adult victims, both deceased from multiple stab wounds to the torso, neck, and head. Female victim, Ji-Yeon Crew, age thirty-eight, found in master bedroom. Male victim, Nikos Stavros Crew, age forty-one, also found in master bedroom.”
Tori’s chest tightened. Her parents’ names. Their ages. Numbers that reduced their lives to data points in a police file.
Blade continued, “Female child, age four, discovered unharmed in master bedroom closet. Child exhibited signs of severe trauma but no physical injuries.”
Kiara reared back in horror.
Tori tried to ignore it. Tried to keep herself from falling apart. “Keep going.”
“Male child, age four, located under bed in master bedroom. Subject was armed with kitchen knife and displayed violent, erratic behavior upon discovery. Child attacked responding officer. Considered a threat to his sister. Officer received wounds requiring multiple stitches. Child required physical restraint.”
The words hit like punches. Violent. Cross to the jaw. Erratic. Jab to the ribs. Threat to his sister. Uppercut that left her reeling.
“Due to the child’s aggressive state and the weapon recovered from his possession, preliminary assessment suggests the male subject may have been responsible for the deaths of both parents. Child has been remanded to psychiatric evaluation pending further investigation.”
Nausea reared its ugly head again. The detached way Barclay had reduced her four-year-old twin to a case study in childhood violence. A monster in footie pajamas. It made her sick. “No . . . that’s not—he was four years old. There’s no way—”
“Tori—”
“A four-year-old doesn’t commit double homicide!” Her voice cracked. “He was hiding. Just like me. He grabbed a knife because he was terrified.”
“Are you saying you remember?” Blade asked in a soft voice.
“No.” But an image popped in her mind anyway. A boy with dark hair and her father’s eyes, clutching a bloody knife. Her twin painted as a killer before he’d learned to tie his shoes.
The violation felt worse than the murders themselves. Someone had taken a traumatized child and twisted his survival instincts into evidence of guilt. Had branded him dangerous, unstable, a threat to the sister he’d never even had the chance to protect.
“Find the witness statements.” Her hands clenched into fists. “The psych evaluations. Everything Barclay filed after this report.”
“Tori, maybe we should—”
“There has to be proof.” She stood, her voice gaining strength. “Real evidence. Not just Barclay’s interpretation of a scared little boy defending himself.”
Because she refused to believe her brother was the villain they’d made him out to be.
“Maybe we should give you some space,” Kiara said, pushing back from the desk. “This is a lot to process. Blade and I could step over—”
“No.” The word shot out before Tori could think. She glanced at Blade as he got up, catching his steady blue gaze. Something settled in her chest at the sight of him.
“She’s right.” He pulled Tori under his arm as he had earlier. “We’ve come this far. Let’s keep going. Together.”
“I need you here,” she said, looking up at him.
The admission surprised her with its clarity, but tucked under her friend’s arm she knew. She needed Blade. His quiet strength, his presence, the way he absorbed turmoil without flinching. The same way he’d found her in that closet tonight, offering comfort without words.
“And I need you too,” she said to Kiara.
A faint line cut across Kiara’s forehead, then disappeared. She dipped her chin once. “I’ll find the psychiatric evaluation.”
They sank back into their seats, and she studied the blond woman’s profile as she scrolled through the files. Watching her, Tori understood why Blade loved her. Kiara carried a quiet grace. Kindness without judgment. The kind that made broken people feel seen.
“Here, I think this is it,” Kiara said. “Dr. Jamie Colley, dated October twentieth, 1998.”
“By day six of the post-incident reports,” Tori said.
“Patient presents with severe behavioral dysregulation following traumatic event,” Blade read.
“Initial assessment reveals hypervigilance, aggressive outbursts, and persistent delusions regarding threats to his safety. Patient refuses to speak about the incident and becomes violent when questioned about his sister’s whereabouts. ”
He was looking for me. The thought pierced through her. While she had no recollection of him at all, her twin had been fighting to find her.
“Day three,” Kiara continued. “Patient attacked orderly with plastic spoon, requiring physical restraint. Exhibits paranoid ideation, claiming ‘bad men’ are coming to hurt his sister. Refuses medication. Screams for Victoria during night terrors.”
Tears burned behind Tori’s eyes. He’d called her by name. Even in his terror, even as the system labeled him dangerous, he’d been trying to protect her. And she’d forgotten him.
“Day seven.” Blade’s voice grew quieter. “Patient’s condition deteriorating rapidly. Hallucinations increasing in frequency and intensity. Claims to see ‘shadows with knives’ in his room. Self-harm behaviors emerging. Patient has bitten through his tongue and clawed at his arms until they bleed.”
The clinical language couldn’t mask the horror. A four-year-old boy, traumatized beyond comprehension, spiraling into madness while doctors took notes.
“Final assessment,” Kiara whispered. “Patient diagnosed with extreme form of early-onset paranoid schizophrenia with homicidal ideation. Prognosis: Poor. Recommend immediate transfer to specialized facility for long-term psychiatric care.”
The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Tori’s twin, branded insane before kindergarten. Shipped away like a broken toy that couldn’t be fixed.
“There’s more,” Blade said. “A sealed court order.”
Kiara’s fingers hesitated over the keyboard. “This is marked classified.”
“No, don’t.” Tori reached out, covering Kiara’s hand with her own. “You’ve risked so much already.”
Kiara opened the file. “You need to know what happened to him.”
The court seal filled the screen. Tori read the header twice before the words penetrated: In re: Nikos Crew Jr., Minor Child—Petition for Identity Expungement and Protective Transfer.
“By petition of the guardian ad litem,” Tori read, “and because of the unique and severe nature of the child’s psychosis, and for the mutual protection of both the subject and his surviving twin, this court orders the immediate legal expungement of Nikos Crew Jr.’s identity.”
Expungement. They’d erased him. Wiped him from existence like he’d never been born.
“The subject’s name shall be legally changed,” Kiara continued. “All birth records, medical files, and identifying documents shall be sealed. The subject is hereby ordered to immediate and permanent transfer to Aletheia Psychiatric Research Institute, Seattle, Washington.”
“Hmm,” Blade said, pressing his thumb against his lower lip.
“What?” Tori asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Probably nothing,” he said, dropping his hand. “A label on Florek’s folder had ‘Psychiatric Research Institute’ on it.”
Kiara’s head tilted. “Aletheia Psychiatric Research Institute?”
“Didn’t see the full name. An attorney covered it pretty quick.”
Aletheia. The name had triggered something in Tori too. She’d heard it before tonight. Or seen it. “We should check into it. Right now, let’s keep going.”
“Okay, where were we,” Kiara said, moving the mouse cursor over the text.
“Okay, here we go. ‘Furthermore, pursuant to the Juvenile Trauma Witness Protection Act, all records of the subject’s new identity and current location are classified. Access restricted to authorized personnel only. Case closed.’”
“Juvenile Trauma Witness Protection Act,” Tori whispered. “That’s not real, is it?”
Blade shook his head. “Never heard of it.”
Had they made it up? Created fictional legislation to justify disappearing a traumatized child?
“Aletheia Psychiatric Research Institute.” Kiara pulled up a web search. “It’s still operational. Private facility, specializes in experimental treatments for severe mental illness.”
Experimental treatments. Tori’s blood ran cold. They hadn’t just hidden her brother. They’d turned him into a test subject.
“Twenty-six years,” she said. “He’s been there twenty-six years.”
If he was still alive. If the experiments hadn’t killed him. If the boy who’d screamed her name in his nightmares had survived whatever they’d done to him.
Tori stared at the screen until the words blurred into meaningless shapes, her mind churning through fragments of memory and evidence.
Violent, erratic behavior.
Armed with kitchen knife.
Paranoid ideation.
Shadow people.
Something cold began to crystallize in her chest. Not grief. Not loss. Something far worse.
“The knife,” she said.
Blade looked up from the file. “What?”
“He knew my routine,” she said. “Weeks of surveillance. He knew when I left for work. When I came home. He knew about the gym, about my schedule.”
“Tori—”
“Subject was armed with kitchen knife. Patient attacked orderly with plastic spoon. Claims to see ‘shadows with knives’ in his room.” Her voice cracked. “He was obsessed with knives. Always a knife. Never a gun, never anything else. Just knives.”
And blood.
A pattern blazed across her consciousness like neon. Was it possible? A four-year-old boy, traumatized by blades. Could he grow into a man who wielded them like extensions of himself?
“The things he said to me.” Her breath came in short bursts. “About shadows. He said I didn’t understand the darkness, but he did.”
Blade’s face went pale. “Tori, what are you saying?”
“Experimental treatments. What if they didn’t cure him, Blade. What if they just made him worse?”
The stalker’s words breathed into her ear: “I’m your shadow.”
“The timing.” She began pacing, her mind working through the evidence like a crime scene.
“A stalker shows up around the time when Damien asked me to come to the prison. And he escalates when we start investigating the Crew murders. When we start asking questions about what really happened that night.”
Kiara’s eyes widened. “You think your brother’s been watching you?”
“He could’ve been watching me for years.” The admission tasted like poison. “Maybe he escaped from Aletheia, maybe they released him. But I think . . . I think he found me.”