I drum my fingertips while the program runs. When the screen lights up; my jaw drops.
There's a photo of Betty and Matthew shaking hands with the Director... and my father. It looks like some kind of banquet, or function.
“Thor, look at this.” I nudge him in the ribs.
“Oh my Hawkeye!” he exclaims, eyes wide like saucers. “Did you know about this?”
“Hell no. I had no clue they even knew each other.” I squint at the screen, zooming in on the background. “They look much younger here. Their clothes look like they’re from the early 90s? This must be before I was even born.”
Bill calls out from his corner, “Betty had a pregnancy in 1999. The other information from her medical files was redacted, but listen to this. She had a live birth. There's no birth certificate, but the files show a date. February 15, 1999. How old is the mute?”
“I’m not sure, but this... fuck. Why the hell is it so deeply hidden?” Frustration mounts with each discovery.
I start muttering, digging around some more. I get into the same files, and holy fuck. Matthew isn’t the father. He can’t be. The father line states “Unknown”. So, who’s the kid’s sperm donor?
I get a sneaky suspicion after seeing that photo.
Changing track, I hack into my father’s records. I normally hit a brick wall once I try to get past the basic shit I can see, so I'm hoping this time I’ll be successful.
“Guys, can you help me break through my father’s firewalls? I need to see the records he keeps hidden.”
They both say “Yep”, so I settle in. This will take some time.
Hunter
I look at my sister, the enigma.
We're in our room. She's doodling on a piece of paper while I watch her.
I’m shocked she’s here with me. That she’s even alive. I’m grateful, but am so enraged over her being in that godforsaken place I can’t see straight.
Cynthia looks up suddenly, confusion on her face. “Hunter? I want to remember. Can you help me?”
I blow out a breath. She seems to be lucid right now, so I might as well try. We need to know.
“Okay, sis. You were taken when you were six. We were both playing outside. A car pulled up, and they took you?—”
Cynthia’s eyes suddenly clear with clarity. “Wait... our dad. The masks told me my dad was a sellout asshole, that he was paid to make me disappear.”
“Yes, that’s true. Try to concentrate. Remember our yard, the house? We were laughing together.”
Cynthia’s eyes widen as my words sink in. “Oh my God. I was wearing jeans and a jacket, right? Those men—they tossed me into the car and drove away. I was screaming, and they hit me to shut me up.” She pauses to think, then, “I woke up in a cell, in The Morgue. The first thing I saw was the masks.”
I grind my teeth in anger. “Were you there this whole time?”
She nods. “Yep, sure was. They were mostly nice when I was young. They put me in a decent cell, fed me, clothed me. I was smacked around if I acted up, but that was all. I had to watch an endless parade of people come in and out of there. Other... prisoners.”
“Did they?—?”
“No. They waited until I was eighteen. How nice of them, right? Then they all had their way with me and tossed me in the fighting ring.”
“God, Cynthia.” My stomach sinks, and my hands shake. Gulping it back, I continue. “Please, think back. Do you recallhearing anything about your true captors? See anyone else in charge? Anything?”
“Um...” She worries her lip with her teeth. “Wait. A man. A fancy-pants rich guy in a suit. He had an accent. He came to see me a couple of times. Called me his sweet prize. I overheard a mask call him Mr. Vol—Volkov, I think?”
I jump up so fast it startles her and she screams.
Cynthia shrinks back in her seat and starts to whimper. “No, no. Not today, nope. Don’t want to fight. Want my wifey.”
