The room they put us in was small and plain.

A table.

Two chairs.

A window with frosted glass that let in grey afternoon light.

Diane was already seated when I walked in.

She looked older.

Her red hair had grown out at the roots, dark grey underneath.

She was wearing a good coat, the kind she always wore to signal that she was doing fine, that she didn't need anything from anyone.

She looked at me and said nothing.

I sat down across from her.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then she said, "I want you to know I did what I thought was right."

"He was nine years old," I said.

"He was living on the street."

Something moved across her face.

Not guilt.

Something more complicated than guilt.

"That wasn't supposed to happen.

Marcus was supposed to—"

"Marcus is gone, Diane.

He's been gone for over a year.

Did you know that?"

She looked at the table.

"I knew he'd stopped responding."

"And you didn't think to call me.

You didn't think to call the police.

You didn't think to do anything except wait and see."

"I didn't know where Noah was.

Ray was handling it."

"Ray abandoned him." My voice stayed level.

I had decided before I walked in that I would not raise my voice.

"Ray left a nine-year-old child alone in a city for three days.

Your plan, Diane.

Your arrangement."

"It wasn't supposed to go like this." She looked up.

Her eyes were dry.

"You were never supposed to find him.

He was supposed to grow up, and by the time he was old enough to ask questions, it would all be too far in the past to matter."

"He asked questions at four years old.

He asked Ray why his mother didn't want him.

He asked that question for five years."

Her jaw tightened.

"You were not fit to raise him.

You were depressed, you were struggling, you were—"

"I was grieving," I said.

"I was grieving because my son had been taken from me.

And the depression you're describing — that came after.

That came because of what you did."

"You were already struggling before—"

"Say it again," I said quietly.

"Say it one more time and I will walk out of this room and let Claire handle every single part of what comes next without giving you the chance to say anything that might matter."

She stopped.

I leaned forward slightly.

"I want to know one thing.

I want to know if Marcus is alive."

Her hands were flat on the table.

They didn't move.

"I don't know," she said.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have." She met my eyes for the first time.

"He called me fourteen months ago.

He said he was done.

He said it had gone too far and he wanted out.

I told him there was no out.

He said he was going to go to the police himself." She paused.

"I never heard from him again."

The room felt very still.

"Did you threaten him?"

"I told him what the consequences would be if he talked."

"And then he disappeared."

"I don't know what happened to him." Her voice was flat.

"I genuinely don't know.

I've asked myself that question every day for fourteen months."

I looked at my sister.

The woman who had sat across from me at our mother's funeral and not said a single word.

The woman who had written a letter designed to make sure my son was handed to a stranger if he was ever found lost and alone.

"You told him I gave him away," I said.

"You told a four-year-old child that his mother didn't want him.

You let him believe that for five years."

She looked away.

"Was it worth it?" I asked.

"Whatever you thought you were taking from me — was it worth what you did to him?"

She didn't answer.

The door opened.

Sergeant Patel leaned in.

"We've executed the warrant on the apartment," she said to me.

"You'll want to hear what they found."

I stood up.

Diane's hand came out and caught my wrist.

Her grip was harder than I expected.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I know that doesn't—" She stopped.

"I'm sorry."

I looked down at her hand on my wrist.

Then I stepped back, and her hand fell away, and I walked out of the room.