Chapter 59: The Real Condition

"Briggs?" Damien said in disbelief.

"That's impossible."

"We saw him tied to a chair."

"We heard his voice."

Arthur enlarged the CCTV image.

The man wore a dark coat and a baseball cap.

His beard was longer.

His shoulders slightly stooped.

But there was no mistaking the face.

Detective Samuel Briggs.

"The timestamp?" Victor asked.

"Twelve minutes ago," Arthur replied.

"The system confirms it hasn't been altered."

"Then either Briggs escaped..."

"Or he was never a prisoner," Damien finished.

Nobody liked either possibility.

Victor folded the baggage claim ticket and slipped it into his pocket.

"We're still going to East Harbour."

"If Nathaniel left something there, we retrieve it first."

"Questions later."

The drive to the railway depot was tense.

Rain had finally stopped, leaving the roads slick beneath the streetlights.

No one spoke.

Nathaniel's recorded voice still echoed inside my mind.

"You survived. Now finish what I started."

The depot looked abandoned.

Only a single security light burned above the entrance.

Arthur showed the baggage ticket to the elderly night attendant.

"Locker C-112," the man said.

"Collection expires in ninety-three minutes."

"Lucky you arrived."

Victor accepted the key without another word.

Locker C-112 stood at the far end of the platform.

Unlike the others, it was larger.

Designed for luggage rather than handbags.

Victor unlocked it slowly.

Inside rested an old wooden music box.

My breath caught.

"I made this," I whispered.

The carved ivy vines along the lid.

The tiny silver clasp.

Even the faint scratch near the corner.

There was no doubt.

Nathaniel's birthday gift.

"Open it," Damien said quietly.

My hands trembled as I lifted the lid.

The familiar melody began to play.

A soft piano tune Nathaniel had loved since childhood.

The compartment looked empty.

"False bottom," I murmured.

I pressed the hidden catch beneath the velvet lining.

The base lifted.

Exactly as Nathaniel had described.

Inside lay a thick brown envelope.

And a hospital wristband.

The envelope was marked in my brother's handwriting.

"Only if I'm gone."

Victor carefully opened it.

The first pages contained copies of contracts.

Hospital payment records.

Private trust agreements.

Transfer authorisations.

Every document linked back to Richard Ashford.

Then came a sealed medical file.

"St. Agnes Hospital," Arthur read.

"Neonatal Intensive Care."

"Patient... Julian Ashford."

Eleanor's first child.

Victor slowly opened the report.

His expression changed immediately.

"This changes everything."

"What is it?" I asked.

He handed me the file.

Across the top of the first page, one sentence had been circled in red.

"Condition stable. Infant transferred under private instruction."

Not deceased.

Not critical.

Stable.

My heart began pounding.

"He wasn't dying," I whispered.

"He was healthy."

"Healthy enough to be moved."

Arthur continued reading.

"Next page."

I turned it.

A doctor's handwritten note filled half the sheet.

"Transfer approved by guardian."

"Reason: Identity protection programme."

"Guardian?" Damien frowned.

"His father?"

"No," Victor answered.

"Look at the signature."

It wasn't Richard Ashford.

Nor Eleanor.

The signature belonged to someone else.

Professor Julian Mercer.

Silence consumed the platform.

"How is that possible?" Damien whispered.

"The child was named Julian."

"How could Julian Mercer authorise his own transfer?"

"He couldn't," Victor replied.

"Unless..."

"Unless Julian Mercer wasn't the child."

"He was already an adult."

"Which means Mercer existed before the baby was born," Arthur finished.

Victor nodded slowly.

"Exactly."

"Someone used his name."

"Or he used someone else's."

I searched deeper inside the envelope.

One final document remained.

A faded photograph.

Nathaniel had mentioned it.

The only photograph ever taken after the child disappeared.

Four people stood outside St. Agnes Hospital.

A nurse.

A young Eleanor holding a newborn.

Richard Ashford.

And another man.

Tall.

Wearing glasses.

His face was partly turned away.

"Zoom in," Victor said.

Arthur scanned the photograph.

The image sharpened.

My stomach tightened.

"I've seen him before," I whispered.

"Where?" Damien asked.

"Nathaniel's notebook."

"The man who reported the crash."

Victor looked at me sharply.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"Same glasses."

"Same scar beside the ear."

"Then he wasn't just a witness," Victor murmured.

"He was there from the beginning."

Arthur suddenly froze.

"There's writing on the back."

He carefully turned the photograph over.

Only one sentence had been written in blue ink.

Not by Nathaniel.

By someone much older.

"The child survived."

"Protect him until she remembers."

"She?" Damien asked.

"Who is she?"

Before anyone could answer, Victor's phone rang.

Unknown number.

He answered without speaking.

A familiar voice came through the speaker.

"Stop looking for Julian."

"You're asking the wrong question."

Victor recognised the voice instantly.

"Briggs."

"Where are you?"

A tired laugh echoed through the line.

"You still think I'm hiding."

"I'm not."

"I'm exactly where Nathaniel told me to be."

"Then tell us one thing," Victor demanded.

"Is Julian Ashford alive?"

There was a long silence.

When Briggs finally answered, his voice was barely a whisper.

"Yes."

"But you've already met him."