“Yuri’s father-in-law.”

The connections tightened.

Yuri.

Anya.

My mother.

Poisoning.

Damian’s father.

Anton continued.

“Dr.

Malkov died ten years ago.”

Damian gave him a look.

Anton corrected himself.

“Reportedly.”

I laughed despite myself.

Nobody else did.

Then Adrian—one of the guards—entered.

“Boss.”

Damian turned.

“We found Dr.

Bell.”

Anton frowned.

“You said he was in Virginia.”

“He was.”

“Was?”

“He’s gone.”

Damian’s expression hardened.

“Again.”

“No.

Someone got there before the investigators.”

My stomach dropped.

“What happened?”

“House empty.

Back door open.”

“Blood?”

“No.”

“Message?”

Adrian hesitated.

“Yes.”

He handed Damian a photograph from the scene.

Written across Dr.

Bell’s bathroom mirror:

ASK HELEN CARTER WHAT SHE DID WITH THE BABY.

My knees nearly gave out.

Damian stared.

I could not breathe.

“My mother?”

Lila touched my hand.

She saw fear immediately.

Her little face tightened.

I signed:

Mommy is okay.

It was a lie.

She knew.

Children often do.

Damian looked toward me.

“What baby?”

“I don’t know.”

Anton returned to Helen’s personnel file.

“Your mother left Grayhaven seventeen years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Did she have another child?”

“No.”

“Did she work maternity?”

“She was a nurse.

Mostly private care.”

“Any connection to Anya?”

“I don’t know.”

Damian stood again.

This time slower.

“Search Helen Carter.”

I snapped:

“She was my mother, not one of your suspects.”

His face changed.

Then he nodded.

“You’re right.”

That surprised me.

He corrected himself.

“Find records that can explain why someone invoked her name.”

Better.

An hour later, we found it.

Not through criminal files.

Through an old newspaper archive.

A charity photograph.

Seventeen years earlier.

My mother stood beside a teenage girl at a Baltimore domestic-violence shelter fundraiser.

The girl was sixteen.

Dark hair.

Large eyes.

Name printed beneath:

ANASTASIA MOROZOVA.

Damian took the photograph.

“Anya.”

I stared.

“Your wife?”

“Yes.”

My mother knew her before Damian did.

The article said Helen Carter volunteered medical services at the shelter.

Anastasia Morozova was listed as a youth resident.

Damian’s eyes filled with something unreadable.

“She never told me.”

“Neither did my mother.”

Then Anton found another record.

A birth certificate.

Two years later.

Anastasia Morozova.

Male infant.

Father not listed.

Child:

Mikhail Morozov.

Damian stared.

“She had a son?”

Before him.

Before their marriage.

“What happened to the child?”

I asked.

Anton scrolled.

“Placed for temporary foster care.”

“Then?”

“Records sealed.”

Damian sat down.

His face completely changed.

“You never knew?”

“No.”

Lila climbed beside him again.

She placed Bunny in his lap.

Damian barely noticed.

Then he whispered:

“Yuri knew.”

Anton looked up.

“Why?”

“Because Yuri introduced me to Anya.”

The room went silent.

Damian’s eyes hardened.

“He knew her before I did.”

I felt cold.

“So the baby might connect them.”

“Yes.”

“Could Yuri be the father?”

Damian shook his head.

“He would have been seventeen.”

“Possible.”

“Yes.”

Then Anton’s phone rang.

He answered.

Listened.

Looked toward Damian.

“Speak.”

Anton lowered the phone.

“Someone is at the front gate.”

“Who?”

“A woman.”

My pulse jumped.

Damian’s did too.

“Name?”

“She refuses to give one.”

“Description?”

Anton looked at me.

Then Damian.

“Dark hair.

Mid-thirties.”

Damian stopped breathing.

Anya would have been thirty-eight.

He walked toward the security monitor.

Slowly.

Painfully.

The gate camera appeared.

Rain.

A woman beneath an umbrella.

Older than the photographs.

Thinner.

But unmistakable.

Damian touched the screen.

“Anya.”

She looked directly toward the camera.

As if she knew he was watching.

Then lifted a sign.

Three handwritten words:

YURI HAS MIKHAIL.

Damian’s face went blank.

I stared.

Her son.

Alive.

Then Anya turned the sign over.

On the back:

AND HE WANTS LILA.

I pulled my daughter into my arms.

Damian looked at me.

No weakness now.

No dying man.

Something colder had returned.

But when he spoke, his voice was controlled.

“Open the gate.”

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