“Vicky gave this to you…?” I gasp, choking on the very thought that my best friend in the world is in on this relentless conspiracy against me. Who else is left to betray me—is Ario next?

“No, this is a copy. Your mum got the original from Vicky’s mum, who is equally eager to see her grandson have a father. This won’t be an official record of your paternity of the child; that’ll come later once you’re home. But consider this a symbolic gesture of your commitment.”

“So, does Vicky know anything about this...? Me coming here?”

“No, but your mum is positive that when you return with the signed copy, Vicky’s relief and gratitude will have made this whole ordeal worth it.”

A sip of breath returns to my lungs. Vicky isn’t part of my kidnapping. Thank God for small favors. “The baby’s already born,” I say. “Isn’t it late to be signing that? Don’t you have to kinda do it, I don’t know…on the day?”

“Mums don’t sign. Obviously, they gave birth, the hospital saw it for themselves. But when the couple isn’t married, signing a birth certificate is how they establish who the dad is. The sooner the better, but it can be signed any time. One signature from you, and the deal is done.”

Briggs waves Avery’s birth certificate like some enticing coupon. A white-hot headache grips my skull. I can almost hear it thudding in my ears. Mom literally snuck a picture of a little boy’s birth certificate, copied it at FedEx, and then handed it to a man whom she’d just paid a fortune to kidnap her own son to a Costa Rican island. She has finally crossed the line—the lengths she’ll go to support this idiotic conspiracy theory have officially surpassed my ability to understand. How long am I going to be arguing this?

“He’s not mine,” I growl through gritted teeth.

“No judgment from me, Mr. Major,” Briggs adds, putting mea culpa hands in the air. He bends to retrieve the birthday card from the floor and presents it alongside the birth certificate copy. “It’s not my birthday. My son Phillip, he just turned eighteen. I was wishing him well at UNI.”

“The envelope’s torn,” I say. “You opened your own card?”

Briggs’s crinkled expression sinks into shadow. “Right, well…see, like I said, no judgment from me. I’m, um…not in the boy’s life no more. He sent back the card without opening it. His mum’s turned him against me. Doesn’t like me working here. She doesn’t have good memories of this camp.”

The math clicks into place: Briggs was listed on the Winner’s Wall as having left in 2002. Eighteen years ago. When his baby was born.