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“None issued or recorded.”
Interesting. Rose dropped out of sight about the same time that Sanders graduated from the police academy. How the two were connected, she wasn’t sure. But they were connected; she was sure of that.
“Warrant approved, sweetness.”
“Good. Grab the adoption records and do a scan for Rose and Michael Sanders.”
“Can do.” The boa twirled for several minutes. “Record for Rose Pierce onscreen.”
Sam looked through the documents. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Rose was placed into Silhouettes’ care when she was twelve months old, after being in the hospital for several months. A search for relatives had come up with no one. Rose stayed at the state-run home until adopted by the Sanders family. “Print me a copy of the ID photo, will you?”
“Printing. No records are available for Michael Sanders.”
For some reason, she wasn’t entirely surprised. She glanced back at Rose’s file. The officer in charge of the adoption was one Mary Elliot. Sam frowned—that name was familiar, though she wasn’t entirely sure why.
“I found a police report for the Sanderses’ accident, sweetie.”
“Read it out loud, Iz. My headache’s back.”
“If you work yourself as hard as you work me, I’m not surprised.”
She grinned. “Just read the report, Iz.”
“The Sanderses’ car was run off the Great Ocean Road and had plowed into a tree at high speed, killing both of them instantly. Several witnesses had reported seeing a red four-wheel drive hit the rear of the Sanderses’ car just before the accident. The four-wheel drive was later recovered in Warrnambool.”
“Stolen?”
“Yes. There were no prints beyond the owner’s in the car.”
“Did the witnesses ID the driver?”
“The description was deemed too vague. A big man with red-gold hair was all that the witnesses were able to provide.”
A cold sensation crept over Sam’s skin. Red-gold hair—the signature of Hopeworth’s children. Maybe the military had discovered Rose’s existence, and rather than jeopardize their precious project, they’d tried to destroy Rose and her parents.
So who had looked after Michael? Rose? “Did you find anything on Michael Sanders’s birth parents?”
“Not a jot, sweetie.”
“There has to be something on record.”
“Sorry, sweetness. There’s no record of a William and Barbara Ryan having a son named Michael born in 2020.”
“But how is that possible? Background checks are a part of enlistment. With such a discrepancy in his records, he should never have been cleared to join State.”
The boa twirled. “I’m not the recruiting officer. Don’t ask me.”
Sam rubbed her chin. “Did anything untoward happen around the time of Sanders’s supposed birth date?”
Izzy tapped a knobby foot for several seconds. “Headlines onscreen, sweetie.”
After flicking through several pages, she found her answer. A fire had swept through the hospital in which Michael was supposedly born. Though no one had been killed, most of the records and computing systems had been destroyed.
She leaned back in her chair. If she were a gambler, she’d put money on the fact that the fire had been deliberately set. It was just a little too convenient.
“Iz, search through Emma Pierce’s file. See if there’s any mention of when she retired from the military.”
The bony foot tapped again. “March 2040.”
