My Little Brother Woke Me Up At Night And Said We Need To Leave Right Now. So, We Did.

Julian and Kennedy Reed

“The documents your brother photographed are incredibly valuable,” Monroe said, gesturing to Caleb’s tablet, which was now connected to his laptop.

“These newspaper clippings match up with several of our cold cases, and his documentation of the blood evidence and wallet from tonight’s victim will help us close at least one open murder investigation.”

I felt sick hearing him talk about murders and victims in clinical terms while looking at my little brother’s photos documenting our father’s crimes. “Who were we before this?” I asked, surprising myself with the question. “You said they hid us carefully. Does that mean we had other names, other lives?”,

Monroe and Caldwell exchanged another look, and then Monroe pulled out a different folder. Inside were birth certificates and photos of two small children I didn’t recognize at first.

The girl looked maybe five, with dark curly hair and a gap-toothed smile. The boy was around two, chubby-cheeked and laughing at something off camera.

It took me a long moment to realize I was looking at Caleb and myself from before I could remember. “Your names were originally Kennedy and Julian Reed,” Monroe said quietly.

“Your biological parents were Michael and Patricia Reed, and they died in what was ruled a murder-suicide when you were six and three. Your father allegedly killed your mother and then himself, leaving you orphaned.”

The room spun, and I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself. “Allegedly?” I repeated, focusing on that one word because I couldn’t process anything else he just said.,

Monroe nodded grimly. “We now believe that murder-suicide was actually a contract killing carried out by the people you know as your parents.”

“They were hired to eliminate your biological parents, who were witnesses in a federal trial against a crime family. After completing the job, they took you and your brother rather than leaving you to go into the foster system where someone might eventually figure out what really happened.”

“They’ve been raising you under false identities ever since, moving whenever they thought someone was getting too close to discovering the truth.”

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The people who’d raised me, who I’d called Mom and Dad for my entire remembered life, had murdered my real parents and then just taken me and Caleb like we were spoils of war.

We’d been living with our parents’ killers for eleven years and never knew it. Caleb made this small, broken sound, and I turned to see tears streaming down his face.

“So they were never really our parents at all,” he whispered. “They were just the people who killed our parents and stole us.”

Agent Caldwell reached across the table like she wanted to take his hand but stopped herself. “I know this is devastating information to receive,” she said gently.

“And we have counselors standing by who specialize in helping children process trauma. But I want you to understand that what they did to you—keeping you isolated and raising you under false pretenses—that was criminal.”

“Regardless of how they treated you day-to-day, even if they fed you and clothed you and seemed to care about you, they had no right to take you from your biological family and no right to keep you hidden from the world. You were kidnapped victims this entire time; you just didn’t know it.”

The words “kidnapped victims” echoed in my head, and I tried to reconcile them with my memories of childhood birthday parties and homeschool lessons and family movie nights. All of it was built on top of a foundation of murder and theft.,

Finding Our Real Family

“Do we have other family?” I asked, because I needed to know if there was anyone out there who’d been looking for us. Anyone who’d missed Kennedy and Julian Reed.

Monroe pulled out more documents, and I saw family trees and contact information, and my heart started beating faster.

“Your biological father, Michael, was an only child. But your biological mother, Patricia, had two siblings, both still living.”

“Her sister, Rachel Gardner, lives in Oregon, and her brother, Thomas Barrett, lives in New Hampshire. We’ve already been in contact with them as part of our investigation, and they’ve been searching for you since you disappeared eleven years ago.”

“They never believed the foster system story your kidnappers spread. They knew something was wrong, but they had no evidence and no way to prove what happened to you.”

He showed us photos of a woman in her forties with curly hair like mine and a man maybe fifty with Caleb’s same nose and chin. Our aunt and uncle.

Actual blood relatives who’d been looking for us while we’d been living forty minutes away from our aunt for the past five years, never knowing we had family who wanted us.,

The interview continued for another two hours as they asked us questions about our daily lives. About things we’d seen or overheard, about any visitors or unusual activities we’d noticed.

Caleb described finding the box of newspaper clippings and showed them every photo he’d taken. I told them about the fake IDs in the garage and the duffel bags of cash and the times Dad had come home with injuries he’d brushed off as work accidents.

They recorded everything carefully and took copies of all of Caleb’s photos. It was past 6:00 in the morning by the time they finally said we could take a break, and I realized we’d been awake for over twenty-four hours.

Agent Caldwell took us to a different room that had two cots set up with blankets and pillows, and she explained this was where they sometimes let witnesses rest during long investigations.

“Someone will be right outside the door,” she said gently. “You’re completely safe here. Try to get some sleep, and we’ll talk more when you wake up.”

But I couldn’t sleep, even though exhaustion was pulling at my bones. I laid on one cot while Caleb curled up on the other, and we stared at each other in the dim light filtering through the window blinds.

“Are you mad at me for waking you up?” Caleb asked eventually, his voice small and scared. “For making us run and causing all this?”

I reached across the space between the cots to grab his hand. “You saved our lives,” I said firmly. “If you hadn’t heard them talking, if you hadn’t been brave enough to document everything and wake me up, we’d probably be dead this weekend. I’m not mad; I’m grateful. You’re the reason we’re still alive.”

He cried then, these quiet sobs that shook his whole body, and I got up and climbed onto his cot so I could hold him. We’d been through something no kids should ever have to experience, and we’d survived it together because my little brother had been brave enough to act when it mattered most.