Beneath the license was a yellowed newspaper clipping from the Canton Repository dated October 14, 1994. The headline read: “Pregnant Woman Missing, Roommate Sought for Questioning.”

And beneath the clipping was a hospital baby bracelet with the name “Jennings” written in faded blue ink.

“Sarah was my cousin,” Evelyn said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She was my best friend.

We lived together in that apartment. She was so excited about those babies. But she was sick, Clara. Her heart was weak, and she didn’t want to go to the doctors because she was scared they would take her babies away.”

I took a step back, my bad knee giving out slightly. I had to grab the back of a kitchen chair to keep from falling.

“What did you do to her?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“I didn’t hurt her!” Evelyn cried, her composure finally breaking. She reached across the table, her hands open in appeal. “I swear to God, Clara, I didn’t hurt her. She went into labor in our apartment. It was three weeks early. There was so much blood. I tried to call for help, but she begged me not to. She died in our bed, Clara. She died holding my hand.”

“And the babies?” I asked, my throat tight.

“Only you survived,” Evelyn sobbed, her face falling into her hands. “Your sister, the other twin, she didn’t make it. I held you in my arms, and you were so small. I had just lost my own baby boy a month before. I was drowning in grief. The world was so cold. I looked at you, and I knew that if I called the police, they would put you in foster care. They would think I did something to Sarah.”

“So you took me,” I said, the reality of it settling into my chest like a heavy stone.

“I saved you,” she whispered, looking up through her tears. “I loved you.

I gave you everything I had. Every single thing. I buried Sarah in the old root cellar behind the Canton house. I packed our things, and I became your mother. I made a life for us.”

I stood there in the quiet kitchen, staring at the woman who had tucked me into bed, who had combed my hair, who had kept me safe. She was a kidnapper. She was a grave robber. She had stolen my entire life before it had even begun.

I didn’t say anything to her. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and dialed three digits.

Evelyn didn’t move to stop me. She just sat there, staring at the driver’s license of the cousin she had buried in the dirt thirty years ago.

Within ten minutes, the gravel driveway was filled with the flashing red and blue lights of the county sheriff’s department. Deputy Miller, a man I had known since high school, was the first one through the door. He looked at me, then at Evelyn, then at the blue tin on the table.