Chương 6
Sloane said, “That proves nothing about intent.”
“It proves continuity.”
Noah tapped the screen.
“And it proves somebody intentionally suppressed the historical name instead of closing the record.”
“Who?”
Marcus asked.
Noah hesitated.
Evelyn understood.
“Sloane.”
“No.”
Noah looked at Marcus.
“The administrative certificate belongs to your executive office.”
Marcus stared at the screen.
Sloane went very still.
Evelyn felt the floor shift beneath her again.
Marcus shook his head.
“No.”
Noah enlarged the metadata.
“Certificate VALE-EX-01.”
“I didn't do that.”
“Your office did.”
“I did not rename a child.”
Sloane watched him.
Marcus looked at her.
“Miriam?”
She said nothing.
“What did you use?”
Still nothing.
Marcus stepped forward.
“My credential?”
Sloane finally spoke.
“You gave me delegated executive authority during the trial shutdown.”
“For ninety days.”
“It was not revoked for eleven months.”
Marcus closed his eyes.
Evelyn almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“When did the rename happen?” she asked.
Noah checked.
“Seven months after the reported death.”
Evelyn looked at Marcus.
“You never noticed?”
“No.”
“You never asked why your executive certificate was being used?”
“No.”
“You never audited the program?”
His expression sharpened defensively.
“We were closing six facilities that year.”
“Of course you were.”
“Evelyn—”
“Your company was busy.”
Marcus slammed his palm onto the counter.
“I didn't know she was alive.”
The sound made everyone jump.
He immediately lowered his voice.
“I didn't know.”
Evelyn looked at him.
“Did you ever suspect?”
“No.”
She watched his face.
His eyes moved away.
The pause was too long.
“Marcus.”
He rubbed his mouth.
“There was a memo.”
Sloane closed her eyes.
Evelyn felt a strange calm return.
“What memo?”
“About continuing EC-series costs.”
“When?”
“Maybe nine months later.”
“And?”
“I asked finance why a closed study still had expenses.”
“What did they say?”
“That preserved cell material had been transferred to a long-term response project.”
Evelyn stared at him.
“You believed that?”
“I wanted to.”
The sentence hung there.
Marcus sat down.
“I told them to recode it.”
Sloane looked at him almost with pity.
“You see?”
Evelyn could not feel her hands.
“You saw my daughter's identifier nine months after she died.”
“Yes.”
“And instead of asking why, you changed the accounting code.”
“Yes.”
Noah looked away.
Marcus's voice became rough.
“I thought I was cleaning up a badly closed program.”
“You thought you were cleaning up evidence.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You saw something impossible and made it easier not to see.”
Marcus stopped arguing.
The station intercom chimed.
A voice from operations announced that exterior visibility had fallen below emergency vehicle limits and that personnel should remain in assigned sectors.
Sloane glanced toward the door.
“I need to check on Lena.”
Evelyn stepped in front of her.
“No.”
“She is frightened.”
“You're the reason.”
“And right now I am still the person she knows.”
That hurt because it was true.
Evelyn moved aside.
Sloane paused.
“You can hate me and still understand that.”
“I understand more than you think.”
Evelyn opened the door.
“But I'm coming with you.”
“No.”
“Then Noah calls outside right now.”
Sloane looked at Marcus.
He did not help her.
Finally she nodded.
“Fine.”
The lower medical level smelled faintly of disinfectant and burnt toast.
Evelyn had noticed the toast earlier and assumed someone had forgotten a meal in the staff kitchen.
Now the smell followed her down the corridor toward the room where her daughter had been living.
The walls were pale gray.
Not cells.
Not cages.
That would have been easier too.
There were framed photographs of mountains. A rack of clean winter clothing. A bulletin board with staff notices and a handwritten reminder about laundry schedules.
Lena's room was at the end.
The door was open.
She sat cross-legged on the bed with a laptop closed beside her.
A paperback lay face-down near her knee.
Evelyn noticed that before anything else.
The spine was cracked.
Lena had always been hard on books.
No.
Elise had been four.
Four-year-olds were hard on everything.
Evelyn corrected herself.
She knew nothing about how Lena treated books.
Sloane stopped in the doorway.
“Can we come in?”
Lena looked at Evelyn.
“You brought her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she has questions.”
Lena gave a short laugh.
“I think I do too.”
Evelyn stayed in the hallway.
Sloane entered and sat at the desk chair.
Lena looked again at Evelyn.
“You can come in.”
The room was small.
One bed.
One desk.
A shelf filled with novels, scientific manuals, a broken snow globe, three mugs, and a photograph of Sloane and Lena standing beside a lake.
Lena was perhaps ten in the picture.
She had one arm around Sloane's waist.
Evelyn looked away.
“Is that a problem?”
Lena asked.
“No.”
“You stared at it.”
“I know.”
“You think she shouldn't be in my pictures.”
Evelyn forced herself to look back.
“I think I wish I were.”
Lena seemed surprised.
Sloane looked at the floor.
Evelyn sat on the edge of the desk, leaving as much distance as the room allowed.
Lena pulled one sleeve over her hand.
“You said my name was Elise.”
“Your birth name.”
“Do you have proof besides DNA?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Evelyn had photographs on her phone.
Hundreds.
She did not pull them out.
“A birth certificate. Medical records. School enrollment from preschool. Photos.”
“Anyone can have photos.”
“Yes.”
“Anyone can fake a birth certificate.”
“Yes.”
Sloane watched them both.
Lena frowned.
“You're agreeing with everything.”
“I don't know what would make this easier to believe.”
“Nothing.”
“Okay.”
“That doesn't mean I believe you.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
Evelyn nodded.
Lena let out an irritated breath.
Then, unexpectedly, she said, “Do I have a father?”
Evelyn looked down at her hands.
“Yes.”
“Alive?”
“No.”
Sloane looked at Evelyn.
That seemed to be something she had not known.
Lena waited.
Evelyn swallowed.
“His name was Daniel. He died seven years ago.”
“How?”
“A car accident.”
“Did he think I was dead too?”
“Yes.”
The girl's face changed.
Small.
May you like
Quick.
Gone.
