I went to the cabinet, pulled out an old photo album, hands shaking as I flipped through it. I found the picture — Michael at twenty-two, standing beside my father at a barbecue, both squinting into the sun, the silver pendant clearly visible against his shirt. I handed it to Tyler. “Your uncle.” “I know who Uncle Michael is.” “Look at his neck.” Tyler’s eyes dropped to the photo, then flicked to the basement door, then back. “No.” “That’s Dad’s necklace. There’s a scratch along the bottom — same one Noah’s wearing. And Noah has a birthmark behind his left ear. So did Michael.” Tyler went pale. “Mom…” “He told me his father’s name is Michael.”
Silence, until Noah’s voice came muffled through the door. “Tyler, what is happening?” Tyler turned to me. “Open the door.” I hesitated. “Mom — if you’re right, Noah still hasn’t done anything wrong.” That landed. He was right.
