Part 3The Baby Who Remembered Murder

Until the investigators came and I said it again.

I thought this would be the moment. But the look on Mr. Burke's face told me he didn't believe me either.

That night, my father didn't hit me. Instead, he made me kneel on the concrete of the back porch for two hours.

The early autumn breeze was freezing. My knees felt like they were cracking under my weight. My mother stayed in the living room, watching TV, never looking out.

When Grandpa Hank called to check in, my father answered smoothly. "Oh, everything's fine, Hank. Toby is just taking a bath."

When he hung up, he walked out to the porch and knelt down to meet my eyes.

"Toby," he whispered, his voice as soft and sweet as a lullaby. "If you ever say those crazy things to the investigators again, I'll have you committed to an institution. They lock kids like you in rooms with straightjackets, and you never get to leave. Do you understand me?"

I nodded.

He smiled and patted my head. "Good boy. I'll go warm up some milk for you."

He got up and went inside.

I kept kneeling.

As the wind swept over me, a memory flickered—

My real dad had warmed up milk for me, too.

It was the only memory I had from when I was barely a year old. He was wearing a white pajama top, carrying a warm mug from the kitchen, blowing gently on it to cool it down before handing it to me.

They were not the same man. I knew it with absolute certainty.

But no one believed me.

Thirty-five days passed after the investigators left.

I thought they were gone for good. My father thought so too. He stopped wearing high-necked sweaters and went back to his loose t-shirts. He started shouting at my mother again, throwing dishes, sliding back into his old skin. My mother started drinking again, smashing glasses when she had too much.

Everything returned to the way it had always been.

Except for Grandpa Hank. He started visiting more often. He would bring boxes of pastries, watching me eat in silence. Sometimes he would sigh out of nowhere, stroke my hair, and whisper, "My poor boy."

I didn't know if he believed me or not. I didn't care anymore.

One afternoon, I was playing in the dirt in the front yard.

The doorbell rang.

My father went to open it, and the cheerful greeting died in his throat.

Mr. Burke was standing on the porch.

It was the same three people: Mr. Burke, Lucy, and the silver-haired older gentleman. But this time, the older man walked in first.

"Mr. David Henderson," Mr. Burke's tone was strictly professional. "We need to follow up on a few details. May we come in?"

My father's smile was stiff, but he stepped aside. "Of course, of course. Please."

My mother came out of the kitchen. When she saw them, her face went pale, but she quickly masked it. "Mr. Burke, is there a problem with the background check?"

"Just a routine follow-up," Mr. Burke said. "Please, have a seat."

But they didn't sit on the sofa.

The silver-haired man walked straight over to me and knelt down.

"Toby," he said softly. "Last time, you said this man isn't your real father."

"Do you have any proof?"

I remembered.

I had seen my real dad when he was taking a shower once. On the left side of his chest, there was a birthmark. A small, heart-shaped mark.

I opened my mouth to speak—

But my father let out a sudden, loud laugh. It was a cold sound that made the hair on my arms stand up.

"Walter, you're seriously going to listen to a five-year-old's fantasy? The kid is a pathological liar. What 'proof' could he possibly have?"

The old man, Walter, ignored him.

He kept his eyes fixed on me. They were incredibly bright. "Don't be afraid, Toby. Take your time."

Looking into Walter's eyes, I realized something. He was serious. He actually wanted to hear what I had to say.

"My real dad," I said, "had a heart-shaped birthmark on the left side of his chest."

"He doesn't have one."

My father's laughter died instantly.

His face went white as paper.