Chapter 16
I carried anger for being robbed of two years.
Sometimes we talked until sunrise.
Sometimes we couldn't speak at all.
But we were learning.
"You hate me a little," she said.
I looked at her.
"Some days."
"Fair."
"And I love you."
"Some days?"
"Every day."
She smiled.
It was the first smile that looked exactly like the woman I remembered.
Then she became serious.
"There's something I haven't told you."
I stared at her.
"Genevieve."
"I know."
"I have reached my lifetime limit for secret laboratories, fake deaths, and criminal fathers."
She laughed quietly.
"This one's different."
She reached into her pocket.
A small envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Sofia Ward.
Elena's younger sister.
She looked around sixteen.
Thin.
Dark hair.
Smiling despite the hospital gown she wore.
Beside her stood Genevieve.
And between them was a baby.
I looked at my wife.
"Whose child is that?"
Genevieve's smile disappeared.
"Elena's."
I stared.
"Elena has a child?"
"Had."
I felt the old fear return.
"What happened?"
"That's what Elena was told."
Genevieve pointed toward the baby.
"Her daughter was born eight years ago.
Helixor told Elena the baby died less than an hour after delivery."
My stomach tightened.
"Did she?"
Genevieve shook her head.
"I found her file while I was imprisoned."
I stood.
"Where is she?"
"I don't know."
The celebration behind us suddenly felt very far away.
"Why would Valez take Elena's daughter?"
"Because the baby carried the same genetic markers that made Elena valuable to the program."
I looked toward the garden.
Elena was still there.
She stood near the oak tree, helping Blythe gather abandoned ribbons from the grass.
She had saved my children.
She had walked through rain with holes in her shoes carrying the only thing that could give them a chance.
And she had no idea that somewhere in the world, the child she had mourned for eight years might still be alive.
"Does Elena know?"
"No."
"Are you certain?"
Genevieve nodded.
"I wanted proof before giving her hope."
I looked down at the photograph again.
There was a number handwritten on the back.
A patient designation.
HV 17.
I had spent most of my life believing power meant making people afraid to say no.
I had been wrong.
Real power was having the ability to open a door for someone who had spent years believing there was only a wall.
I folded the photograph carefully.