Chapter 10 - THE BROTHER WHO DISAPPEARED

The name stayed in my mind all night.

Lucas Blackwood.

My brother.

A person who had existed in my family’s history but had been erased like he never lived.

I sat alone in my father’s study, surrounded by old photographs.

There was one picture I couldn’t stop looking at.

My father.

My mother.

And a little boy standing between them.

Lucas.

He looked happy.

He looked loved.

So why had nobody ever told me about him?

The next morning, I confronted my mother.

“Tell me everything.”

She looked tired.

Like she had been waiting thirty years for this moment.

“Lucas was born before you.”

I froze.

“You had another child before me?”

She nodded.

“Yes.”

“Then why did I never know?”

Her eyes filled with pain.

“Because Arthur used him against us.”

My anger grew.

“Again?”

She looked down.

“When Lucas was eight years old, Arthur discovered I was collecting evidence against him.”

I stepped closer.

“What did he do?”

“He took Lucas.”

The room went silent.

My hands clenched.

“He kidnapped him?”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“Not officially.”

She explained that Arthur manipulated the situation.

He convinced my father that Lucas was in danger because of my mother’s actions.

He told them hiding Lucas was the only way to protect him.

But once Lucas disappeared…

Nobody could find him.

The police were told he had been sent away.

The records were changed.

The truth was buried.

“Why didn’t you look for him?”

My mother’s tears fell.

“I did.”

Her voice broke.

“For years.”

“Then what happened?”

“Arthur made sure every road led nowhere.”

I walked away, trying to control my anger.

Another life destroyed.

Another person stolen.

Then my father entered the room.

He looked at me.

And I knew immediately.

He had heard everything.

“Dad.”

He stopped.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His face was full of shame.

“Because I failed him.”

Those words hurt more than any excuse.

“You were his father.”

“I know.”

His voice cracked.

“And I have regretted it every single day.”

He pulled a small notebook from his pocket.

“I kept searching.”

I took it.

Inside were years of notes.

Locations.

Names.

Possible sightings.

My father never stopped looking.

“He’s alive,” my father whispered.

I looked up.

“What?”

“I found him.”

My heart raced.

“Where?”

My father hesitated.

Then said:

“He’s been living under a different name.”

“Why?”

My father looked toward the window.

“Because someone taught him to hate us.”

Before I could ask more, my phone rang.

A message appeared.

A photo.

A man standing outside a building.

Older.

Scarred.

But I knew his face.

Lucas.

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