Page 30
I don’t realize my cell is still in my pocket until it vibrates. I grab it before it can ring loud enough to wake her.
It’s Waddington. I stare at the name for one second. Rio glances up from where he’s keeping Lana warm.
“Answer it,” he says.
I drag my thumb over the screen and bring the cell to my ear.
“Waddington.”
“Um, your brother’s cell appears to be switched off,” Waddington stutters. “So I tried you.”
“He’s right here,” I reply and put the speaker on, but lower the volume. “Speak.”
“I’ve been researching the will dispute,” he says, his voice tighter than before. “My partners advised me to begin by gathering old paperwork. Childhood records, foster placements, anything under the surname Boar.”
The academic tone slips. Confusion creeps in.
“I started yesterday afternoon,” he continues. “I’ve been digging through databases for hours–local archives, hospital admissions, school records, anything from early childhood.”
There’s a pause.
“And nothing matches.”
My muscles lock. Rio lifts his head sharply.
“What do you mean nothing?” I ask.
“I mean no record,” Waddington says slowly, enunciating each word. “No birth registry under that name. No foster paperwork. No social worker assignments. No adoption notes. No health file tied to the surname Boar in any municipal database.”
“It must be an error,” Rio says from the bed.
“It isn’t,” Waddington replies. “I’ve run dozens of queries. I’ve checked adjacent counties. I’ve cross-referenced all documented children in state care in that time period. There should be something. Anything. A single note. A doctor’s line. A nurse’s entry. A vaccination record. These records don’t vanish without deliberate removal.”
I stare at the far wall.
Rio slowly rises to sit up straighter.
My voice feels very far from my body.
“We exist somewhere,” I say.
“Yes,” Waddington answers softly. “Which makes this void even more unsettling.”
“Explain,” Rio says.
“I started narrowing parameters,” Waddington continues. “Instead of searching for your surname, I searched for all male minors registered in group homes who later disappeared from paperwork. Only a few fit that window. None align with your ages as far as I can tell. Nothing leads directly to you.”
He exhales slowly on the other end of the line.
“It’s not a gap,” he says. “It’s an empty field. As though two boys lived five, six, seven years in state care and not one nurse, specialist or placement officer ever wrote their names on a file. No lost-to-follow-up note. Nothing.”
My bones feel hollow.
He continues talking.
“Your surname may have been created,” he says quietly. “Not inherited. Not documented. Invented.”
My pulse stalls.
