Chapter 2 - The Face in the Moonlight
The silver moonlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our La Jolla master bedroom, illuminating the infant’s face with terrifying clarity.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I took one slow, trembling step forward, bracing myself for the ultimate betrayal—expecting to see Eric’s dark curls, his sharp jawline, or the distinctive hazel tint of his eyes passed down from some secret affair.
Instead, I saw a baby boy, no more than three months old, with a deep, jagged scar running across his left temple—a faint red mark that looked hauntingly fresh. And right beside his tiny ear was a birthmark: a dark, star-shaped cluster of dark skin.
My knees nearly buckled. The breath caught in my throat so hard I let out a sharp, choked gasp.
I knew that birthmark. I knew that exact scar.
Fourteen months ago, my older sister, Maya, had given birth to a boy in a private clinic in Seattle. She had named him Leo. But three weeks after he was born, Maya—along with her husband, Julian—had vanished without a trace. Their car was found abandoned on a rain-slicked bridge over the Columbia River. The police called it a double suicide fueled by massive debt. Leo was presumed drowned, swallowed by the freezing current along with his parents.
I had wept for months. I had worn black to two empty graves.
Yet here was my nephew, breathing softly, sleeping on my silk pillow in San Diego.
"Elena?"
Eric’s low, gravelly voice broke through the silence.
He sat up abruptly, rubbing his eyes, his dark hair messy. The moment his eyes adjusted to the dim light and saw me standing at the foot of the bed, all color drained from his face. He didn't look like a caught cheater; he looked like a man who had just seen a ghost standing over his grave.
"Elena... oh God," Eric whispered, his voice cracking. He didn't look at the baby. He looked straight at me, his eyes wide with a terrifying mix of relief, horror, and profound panic. "You weren't supposed to be home until Thursday."
"Whose baby is this, Eric?" I asked. My voice didn't sound like my own. It was cold, hollow, stripped of all warmth.
Eric swung his legs over the side of the bed, keeping his body positioned squarely between me and the sleeping infant. He reached for his shirt on the floor, his hands shaking so violently he could barely push his arms through the sleeves.
"Elena, listen to me," he pleaded, taking a cautious step toward me. "Whatever you're thinking—whatever conclusion you're jumping to—it's not what you think. I swear on my life, I didn't cheat on you."
"That's Leo," I pointed a shaking finger at the bed, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes, burning my cheeks. "Eric... that is Maya's baby! Maya is dead! Leo died fourteen months ago in the Columbia River! Why is my dead nephew sleeping on my pillow?!"
Eric swallowed hard, his throat clicking in the quiet room. He reached out to touch my arm, but I violently smacked his hand away.
May you like
"Don't touch me!" I sobbed, backing up against the doorframe. "Talk to me, Eric! What did you do?!"
"Maya isn't dead, Elena," Eric whispered, the words dropping like lead weights onto the floorboards between us. "And neither is Julian."
