Page 55 of In Shadows We Dance

They appeared sixteen years ago, fully formed, without any history. Just an abrupt start … like they didn’t exist before that moment.

There should besomething. Some trace, some link back to a financial institution. Something to show they’re part of the town.

The teacher drones on about derivatives and functions, but my attention is on my phone.

No credit checks. No electronic trail. No previous jobs.

Why would a family erase themselves so thoroughly? What are they hiding?

“Mr. Carlisle?” The teacher’s voice breaks through my focus. “Would you care to solve the equation on the board?”

I glance up, irritated by the interruption. The numbers arrange themselves into patterns that require minimal effort.

“Negative four x squared plus two.” The answer comes automatically, easily, meaningless compared to the equations I’m trying to solve about her. At the teacher’s nod, my mind returns to more intriguing puzzles.

Like why a family would work so hard to leave no trace?

English Literature should bore me, but even Shakespeare seems relevant today. All those stories of hidden identities and dark obsessions. My phone stays concealed beneath my desk as I continue searching, my mind picking through things I’ve noticed over the years, filed away, and never really given much thought to.

Things like the way she flinches from attention. How she’s perfected the art of being unseen. It’s fucking unnatural.

By the time the final bell rings, I’m more than ready to go home. I wave off my friends and head straight for my car, anticipation building with each mile. The house stands empty as always.

Perfect. No distractions from my hunt.

It takes me less than an hour to transform one of the guestrooms into a research hub. Multiple screens pulling data from places that should be inaccessible. This isn’t just hacking, it’s excavation. Each piece of information brings me another step closer to uncovering her truth.

It’s about taking what’s meant to be mine.

I start at the beginning. Ileana’s birth certificate. It’s easily accessible, no extra permissions needed. Both parents are listed. Maria and James Moreno. At first, nothing stands out, but then the hospital name catches my eye. I cross-reference the dates just to be sure.

“Well, isn’t that interesting …”

The hospital closed three months before Ileana’s birthdate. A small detail, easy to overlook unless you’re specifically looking for inconsistencies. I force myself to take a deep breath, to slow down. Rushing means mistakes, and I can’t afford that. I need to savor each discovery, dissect every little puzzle.

Curious, I dive into Maria Moreno’s records. What should be a straightforward history—birth certificate, school records, employment history—turns into a blank slate.

Then I spot it … a medical record for ‘Maria Morales,’notMaria Moreno. The difference is subtle but it sends me spiraling down a deeper path. The medical records show routine appointments, regular checks that match what should be Maria's pregnancy. Except the timeline doesn’t quite fit. The visits stop abruptly, right around when she would have been in her third trimester.

My eyes narrow, scrutinizing every piece of data.

If Maria was pregnant, why did her medical history stop so suddenly? And why the change in names? Why Maria Morales instead of Maria Moreno? Was that her name before marriage? If so, why can’t I find any record of it?

And then there’s James. His past is just as blank, starting with his marriage to Maria. No work history, no connections, yet they’ve lived comfortably, paying everything in cash.

It’s too perfect … as if someone orchestrated their entire arrival.

I push back from the desk, pacing the room, needing to move while I try to piece everything together, and build an accurate timeline that will answer the questions I have.

Their marriage certificate was filed a year before Ileana’s birth, in a county that experienced a convenient records fire soon after. It conveniently erased much of the documentation that could explain their past. It seems doubly coincidental that the county didn’t keep digital records, so I can’t even pull those up to check names.

The discrepancy in Maria’s medical records catches my eye again. Something about her initial paperwork seems off. Then I find it … a file I almost skipped over because of the different name. But there’s a photograph labeled ‘Annetta Rossi,’ and something about her eyes stops me. I look closer, the familiarity gnawing at me, and then it clicks. It's Maria.

A deeper dive into the system reveals a trail. That same face appeared under ‘Maria Morales’ months later, then finally as ‘Maria Moreno.’ Someone tried to erase the connections, but they missed this one photograph in their cleanup.

I need more. The information is there, just beyond my grasp, and I push myself harder, searching foranythingthat will make this picture come into focus.

Following my gut, I dig deeper into sealed FBI records—the kind that shouldn’t be accessible, but money and connections make anything possible.

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