Page 75 of See Me After Class

Then, I hesitated before adding an additional reminder.

Tell John the truth.

With just two hours to rest, sleep was a lost cause. I lay still for a bit, then sprang into action. After a quick shower and a throw-on of jeans and a shirt, I was wrapped in my long coat. I wolfed down a coffee and a croissant, then hit the road, car purring into the morning quiet. Although daylight had sprung, the morning was terribly windy and cold.

A strong gust howled around my Lambo like a banshee wailing all my anxieties right back at me. Stillingbrook slept, streetlights casting lonely pools of yellow, still turned on. Letitia's words echoed in the roar of the engine. "A family, Dessie. A life stolen."

I took the CT-15 north, passing through stretches of scenic Connecticut countryside, with rolling hills and quaint New England towns dotting the landscape.

My eyes skimmed the map I had sketched on my notepad. In places, the ink was already blotted.

After the long drive on CT-15, I took exit 68N to merge onto CT-195 North toward Mansfield. The road here wound through thicker woodlands, with the dense canopy of trees offering a burst of fiery colors.

About twenty miles down CT-195 North, I turned left onto Ashcroft Road, a less-traveled path that delved deeper into the Connecticut woods.

Ashcroft seemed trapped in a time warp. Victorian houses huddled together, secrets clinging to their peeling paint andovergrown gardens. Every creaking porch swing, every boarded-up window, felt like a silent scream, a plea for forgotten stories.

It reminded me of a child's game,Knock, knock. Who's there?The town itself was the chilling answer.The past, Dessie. And it wants to talk.

After another ten miles on this road, I found Woodland Heights, a narrow lane on the right. The estate was located at the end of this lane.

Memories, sharp and unwelcome, pricked at me—children lost in the maze of foster homes, eyes full of questions no one answered. My years as a child psychiatrist had shown me the myriad ways silence festers, how family secrets morph into poisonous vines, choking the present in the dead grip of the past.

The Lambo purred to a stop before a wrought-iron gate, moss clinging to its bars like skeletal fingers. Beyond, a house huddled in the shadows, a Gothic silhouette against the moonlit sky. Tall windows gaped like empty eyes, the overgrown lawn a riot of untamed green. This wasn't just a house. It was a mausoleum, a shrine to a stolen life.

Heart hammering against my ribs, I pushed open the creaking gate and stepped into the overgrown wilderness. Each crunch of gravel underfoot felt like a desecration, disturbing the ghosts that roamed these grounds. As I approached the house, moonlight fell on a chipped plaque.Thornfield Estate. An appropriate name, I thought, sensing the thorns already piercing my skin.

The front door hung open, a gaping maw inviting me in. Inside, dust motes danced in the moonlight, weaving cobwebs of time. The air hung heavy with the stale scent of decay. I moved quietly.

A grand piano, keys yellowed with age, stood silent in the drawing room, its melodies choked by dust and whispers. A faded photograph on the mantelpiece showed a young womanwith sunlight woven into her hair and a child clinging to her hand. My adoptive father, Oswald, stood beside them, a ghost of the happiness that had once bloomed here.

The upstairs rooms held a child's nursery, frozen in time with a rocking horse missing its rider. A dusty attic held trunks overflowing with letters, faded diaries, and brittle newspaper clippings.

I finally uncovered a file with my name on it and opened it to discover more newspaper clippings. In one, a headline screamed,Hospital Raids Uncover Baby-Selling Racket. My breath hitched.

My hands trembled as I began reading from the clipping.

In a shocking revelation, authorities have uncovered a decades-long trafficking scheme at Maryland, a trusted local institution. Investigations have revealed that the hospital staff, in collusion with an illegal adoption ring, were involved in the sale of newborns to unsuspecting adoptive families.

My throat was so dry it could have been a desert.

Investigators report that the hospital's maternity ward staff systematically targeted vulnerable families. Newborns were stolen and falsified as orphans before being sold in a lucrative black-market adoption network. The extent of this inhumane practice has left the community in absolute disbelief and horror.

Beads of sweat appeared on my forehead in spite of the chill. In the vague recesses of my mind, I recalled the reason. Cold sweats, signaling the incoming of a panic attack. I sifted through the remaining contents of the file before I found what I was looking for. My adoption documents. "My God," I whispered. "It's true." I wasn't orphaned. I was a stolen child.

"My birth parents..." I trailed off, my eyes scanning the redacted lines for some hint of who they could have been. As expected, I found nothing. But something must have gonewrong. God knows what it was. Maybe it was the starkness of my appearance or the clear fact that my face didn't fit the mold of a trophy child.

Whatever the reason, I ended up on the bottom shelf, discarded in the orphanage system until Oswald, like a lone lighthouse in a sea of shadows, spotted me and pulled me in, giving me a home.

My teeth had begun chattering. This was too much to take. No list could possibly solve this.

Who was the mastermind behind this? What heartless monster could orchestrate such a twisted play?

My mind reeled, questions spiraling like smoke before my eyes.

"This is why they invented the saying, you know?"

The stacks of papers fell from my hands in my effort to wheel around. I knew that voice. It was unmistakable.

---