Emma frowned.
"Who?"
"My daughter."
Silence filled the room.
Richard looked directly into her eyes.
"And I believe," he continued, "that I may have found her."
Emma felt the floor shift beneath her.
"Mr. Weston, I think you've made a mistake."
"I prayed that I had."
He reached toward a folder on the table.
His hands trembled.
Inside was an old photograph.
He slid it toward her.
Emma looked down.
And stopped breathing.
The photograph showed a little girl of perhaps five years old.
She had dark hair.
Large brown eyes.
A tiny birthmark beneath her chin.
Emma touched her own chin.
She had the exact same mark.
The room seemed to disappear around her.
"Who is she?" Emma whispered.
Richard closed his eyes.
"My daughter."
Emma looked again.
"No."
"Her name was Emily Weston."
Emma's hands began shaking.
"My name is Emma Carter."
"I know."
Richard opened another folder.
Inside were documents, photographs, medical records, and newspaper clippings.
Emma stared at them.
Then Richard said the sentence that would destroy everything she thought she knew.
"Emma Carter was never your real name."
The rain continued outside.
But Emma no longer heard it.
Because for the first time in her life, she understood that the story of her childhood might have been a lie.
And somewhere inside that mansion was the truth.
A truth someone had spent twenty years trying to bury.
Emma remained standing beside the table, unable to sit.
Her fingers were still resting on the photograph.
The little girl smiled at the camera with the careless happiness of a child who had no idea that her life was about to become a mystery.
Emma knew that smile.
She had seen it in old photographs of herself.
At least, she thought she had.
"My mother has pictures of me as a child," Emma said.
Richard looked away.
"Does she?"
Emma noticed the hesitation.
"What does that mean?"
Richard took a slow breath.
"It means you should ask her where those pictures came from."
Anger began replacing Emma's fear.
"You can't bring me here, tell me I'm someone else, and then expect me to believe everything you say."
"I don't."
"Then prove it."
Richard nodded.
"I already have."
He pushed another envelope across the table.
Emma opened it.
Inside was a laboratory report.
DNA analysis.
She read the first page.
Then the second.
Her eyes stopped at the conclusion.
The probability of biological parentage was greater than 99.99 percent.
Emma stared at the number.
"Who was tested?"
"You and me."
Her mouth went dry.
"When?"
"Tonight."
Emma looked toward the door.
"While I was in the car?"
Richard nodded.
"I arranged for a medical technician to meet us on the road. A small sample was taken from you with your permission, although you weren't told what the test was for."
Emma's expression hardened.
"You tested my DNA without telling me why?"
"I know how that sounds."
"It sounds unforgivable."
"I agree."
Richard lowered his head.
"But after twenty years of searching, I was terrified that I was wrong."
Emma looked at the report again.
"How did you find me?"
Richard's voice became quieter.
"Because of your blood."
He explained that twenty years earlier, his family had been torn apart by a bitter custody battle.
Richard's wife, Margaret, had been struggling with a severe illness.
Their marriage had deteriorated.
Lawyers became involved.
Family members took sides.
Then one afternoon, five-year-old Emily disappeared.
Richard had been told that his daughter had been taken by Margaret during an emergency trip.
Margaret insisted that Richard's family had arranged the disappearance.
Police investigated.
Nothing was found.
Eventually, the case went cold.
Richard never stopped searching.
"I spent years believing she was dead," he said.
Emma swallowed.
"And my mother?"
Richard hesitated.
"We don't know everything."
"Did she take me?"
"I don't know."
"Did she sell me?"
"I don't know."
Emma slammed the report onto the table.
"Then what do you know?"
Richard looked at her.
"I know someone changed your identity."
Emma stared at him.
"Why?"
"That is the question I have spent twenty years trying to answer."
He showed her another document.
A hospital record.
The name Emily Weston.
Birth date.
Blood type.
Medical information.
Then another document.
A different child with almost identical details.
Emma read it carefully.
The second child's name was Emma Carter.
The date of birth was the same.
Her heart pounded.
"Someone created a second identity for me."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Richard's expression darkened.
"Because whoever did it wanted Emily Weston to disappear."
Emma walked toward the window.
The ocean stretched beyond the cliffs.
She suddenly felt very small.
All her memories seemed uncertain.
Her first day at school.
Her childhood bedroom.
Her mother's voice.
Family vacations.
Every photograph.
Every story.
What if none of it was real?
Then another thought struck her.
"My mother knew."
Richard didn't answer.
"You said someone changed my identity. My mother raised me. She must know."
"Perhaps."
Emma turned around.
"I want to call her."
Richard stood.
"Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because if she was involved, calling her now could put you in danger."