Chapter 75 Another Name
The decision settled quietly, without drama, home first, hospital after, then back to the estate. I needed anchors, things that had existed before tonight, before orphanages with steel shutters and files stamped with words that hollowed me out. If I didn’t ground myself in something real, I was going to unravel, and I couldn’t afford that. Not now.
The drive to my childhood home felt surreal, like moving through a memory that didn’t quite belong to me anymore. Streets I’d known by heart passed by in muted colors, streetlights flickering on as dusk deepened. I parked a few houses down, more out of instinct than logic, and sat there for a moment with my hands resting uselessly in my lap. The house looked the same,white walls, modest porch, the front window Mom always forgot to lock properly.
That should’ve comforted me, instead, it made my stomach twist. I approached slowly, my senses stretched thin, cataloging every sound, every scent. That was when I noticed it, the flowerpot by the door, it was still there, but it wasn’t right.
Mom always positioned it at a slight angle, tilted toward the light. The pot now faced straight ahead, centered too perfectly, like someone had set it down without knowing its habit. My chest tightened as I crouched and lifted it, the spare key was still underneath, so why move it at all?
Mom was in the hospital. She hadn’t been home in months. Lily was at school, no one else had a reason to touch that pot.
I slid the key into the lock and stepped inside.
The familiar scent of home wrapped around me instantly, cleaning solution, faint vanilla, something warm and lived-in. The lights were off, just as we’d left them. Shoes were lined up by the wall. The framed photos on the console table hadn’t been disturbed, nothing was out of place, which somehow made everything feel wrong. I closed the door behind me carefully and stood there, listening. The house was quiet in the way only empty homes are, not peaceful, just suspended. My wolf stirred uneasily, urging caution, but there was no immediate threat. No foreign scent lingering in the air. Whoever had been here hadn’t stayed long. They’d come for something specific, I pushed the thought aside, I couldn’t spiral now, I’d come for documents, not answers to questions I wasn’t ready to face.
“It’s getting late,” I murmured to myself, grounding my voice in the small space. “Get what you need and go.” I headed straight for Mom’s room.
The wardrobe stood exactly where it always had, its bottom drawer stiff from years of being overfilled. I knelt, tugging it open with a familiar groan of wood against wood. Inside were neatly stacked folders, insurance papers, old bills, school records, and there it was. The adoption file. My fingers hesitated before touching it, a strange heaviness settling in my chest. This folder had sat here for years, untouched, while I lived my life without ever questioning what it might hold. Now it felt like a sealed door I wasn’t sure I wanted to open. I pulled it free and sat on the edge of the bed.
The adoption certificate was right on top.
Everything about it looked legitimate, official stamps, signatures, dates. My name, Maddie, printed clearly across the page. For a fleeting moment, relief washed through me. Something here still made sense,then I flipped the page. My heart sank. The original birth certificate wasn’t there.
In its place was a replacement copy, slightly newer, the paper smoother, the ink darker. My eyes scanned it quickly, searching for the details I’d hoped would anchor me.
Place of birth: redacted.
Hospital: redacted.
Parents: sealed.
A replacement certificate.
I swallowed hard.
Replacement certificates didn’t just appear. Someone had requested it. Someone had gone through legal channels to alter, obscure, or remove information that had once existed. Whatever truth had been on the original had been deliberately erased.
I’d hoped, stupidly, that the birth certificate would tell me something simple. A hospital. A city. Somewhere real I could point to and say, That’s where I came from. Instead, I was staring at another carefully constructed absence. My fingers trembled as I set it aside and turned to the adoption paperwork beneath.
The pages rustled softly in the quiet room. I skimmed the familiar sections, dates, approvals, signatures I vaguely remembered Mom explaining to me years ago. My eyes blurred slightly, fatigue creeping in, but then something unfamiliar caught my attention. I slowed.
Under Authorized Guardian at Transfer, a name appeared, not Mom’s, not any social worker I recognized, not the orphanage, but Henry Brooks. I stared at it, my mind struggling to process what I was seeing.
“Who…?” I whispered.
The name meant nothing to me. No memory stirred. No explanation followed. Just a signature beneath it, firm and confident, like the person who’d written it had known exactly what they were doing. A guardian, at transfer.
That meant whoever Henry Brooks was, he hadn’t just been a witness, he’d had the authority to sign me over, to decide where I went. My chest tightened painfully. Why didn’t Mom ever mention him? Why hadn’t I seen this name before? I grabbed my phone again, fingers moving automatically as I typed the name into the search bar. “Henry Brooks.” Dozens of results appeared. Different men, different cities, different ages. The problem is how do I know which Henry Brooks I'm looking for. It was like chasing smoke.
I exhaled shakily and leaned back against the bed, staring at the ceiling. My head throbbed, thoughts piling on top of each other until they blurred into a dull ache. This was too much.
I’d come here hoping for clarity, and instead I’d uncovered another layer of questions, another name, another dead end, but not a meaningless one.
Henry Brooks was real. His signature existed. He’d stood between my parents and the orphanage, between my life before and my life after, and I was certain of one thing now. Olivia Silver, Amelia Silver, William Silver. Those names weren’t random, I might not have proof yet. I might not understand how it all fits together. But something deep inside me, something older, steadier, knew they were mine.
I closed the file carefully and slipped it back into the drawer, my movements slow and deliberate. Whatever had happened here, whatever truths were hidden in these pages, I wasn’t going to unravel them tonight, not like this. I stood, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and took one last look around the room. Everything appeared untouched, just as it should be, but now I knew better than to trust appearances. As I locked the door behind me, the unease followed, settling into my bones.
I hadn’t found what I was looking for, but I'd found enough to keep going. I didn’t know yet if Olivia Silver was truly who I was. I didn’t know if Amelia and William were really my parents, or if their names were just another layer of protection built around me, but until I found Henry Brooks.