She shakes her head. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t make me say it. Please, just tell him.” My heart fills with pain. Did she push the memory down in her brain so far that she doesn’t actually remember?
When they shot her, did it cause a traumatic brain injury?
Could she really not remember?
I can’t believe that my mother would forget her child. I can’t believe that.
“Whatever it is, just say it. You’re upsetting your mother.”
Upsetting her? I take a deep breath. “I did a DNA test on Everett.”
The room goes cold.
“Everett is my brother.”
Impossible
Max
“No, he isn’t. That’s impossible.” Mom doesn’t raise her voice. Nor does she move from Dad’s arms. She just sits there and stares at me, dumbfounded.
“Max?” Dad’s hard warning tone would send other men scampering away.
“DNA doesn’t lie. Everett is my brother.”
Mom shakes her head as Dad’s arms tighten around her. “That’s impossible.”
What’s impossible is that you’re still lying to us. “Clearly, it’s not. Mom, I’m not mad at you. I just need you to tell me who the threat is so we can take care of them.”
“There is no threat. Everett isn’t my child. He isn’t your brother.” Her whole body shakes as she pushes out of Dad’s arms and stands up. She marches over to me. “Hear me when I say this, Massimo Rage Vincenti: Nothing in the world would keep me from you or Milia. I would walk through fire to keep you safe and get you back. There is no way I would walk away from Everett and not fight to get him back if he were my son. Everett isn’t my child.”
“But he is. The science doesn’t lie.”
“He can’t be. Everett can’t be my son. I only gave birth to two children, Milia and you.”
“The science doesn’t lie. Everett is my brother.” I hate seeing the pain in Mom’s eyes.
Dad walks up and wraps his arms around Mom.
She twists around until she’s facing him. “I would remember him. I wouldn’t have left my child. There’s no way Everett is mine.”
He sets his head down on hers and meets my eyes. The confusion and fear in them mirror my own. “Maybe Everett can shine some more light on this. Why don’t you go get him?”
“I remember every minute that I was gone. He can’t be mine. He can’t be mine,” she keeps repeating that over and over again as I walk out of the room.
How is this possible? Could it really be amnesia?
A traumatic brain injury would do that, but she has no visible scarring on her head.
But there could be something hidden underneath her hair.
Wouldn’t Dad have felt it?
None of this makes sense. Why can’t life be like my computers, which follow set rules?
I step into the kitchen doorway and stop.
