Seven months after our divorce, I rushed into St. Jude’s Children’s and Women’s Hospital, still angry at my ex-wife, only to learn that she had just given birth to twin boys, and both of them were mine. Before the night was over, a nurse would place a brass key in my hand and tell me to use it before my own family arrived. And what was waiting for me beyond that was even more shocking.

The grand main house looked noticeably smaller than I remembered from childhood, its once-spotless white exterior faded by years of weather, and its dark windows completely covered in thick, overgrown ivy.

A dark, unmarked SUV was parked near the main iron gates.

I slowed the car as we came closer.

Marcus leaned forward nervously in the passenger seat.

“It looks completely empty,” Marcus observed quietly.

“It certainly looks that way,” I agreed carefully.

I took the small brass key out of my coat pocket as we walked up the long, wet driveway toward the caretaker’s cottage.

The front door of the cottage let out a loud, rusty groan as I slid in the key and turned the lock.