The laugh that followed was shaky. But it was there. She softened. “Tell me about her.”
Took a breath. Let the recollections surface.
“Foster care. We entered the system together after our parents died. I was ten. Mae was thirteen.” The nickname came naturally. “She was fierce. Even then. Asked questions nobody wanted to answer. Dug for truth when everyone else wanted comfortable lies.”
Clare settled on the edge of the bed, still holding my palm. Listening.
“I protected her. Dislocated a foster father’s jaw for raising a hand to her. Got us moved to a new placement after that.”
“Good.”
“She became a journalist. Investigative. The kind who doesn’t let go when she smells corruption.” Warmth crept into my tone despite everything. “Last time I saw her was at Malone’s, a dive bar we often went to. I told her someone was watching me. Warned her not to believe what they’d tell her.”
My ribs ached.
“She rolled her eyes. Thought I was paranoid.” The recollection was sharp, clear. Mae laughing at my concern, telling me I’d been watching too many conspiracy documentaries. “Three weeks later, I was arrested. Fabricated charges. Armed robbery, aggravated assault. They framed me so clean it looked airtight.”
Clare’s grip tightened on mine.
“They declared me dead four months later. Cerebral hemorrhage. Body cremated. No remains.”
“But she didn’t believe it.”
“No body, no proof.” Met her gaze. “She’s been searching for me. Six months, according to Dresner’s files. Tracking leads. Following ghost stories across continents.”
The weight of it settled between us. My sister, brilliant, stubborn, relentless, refusing to give up. Fighting to find mewhile I was locked in conditioning protocols, my mind wiped clean, killing for the man who’d stolen my life.
“She never gave up.”
“No. She didn’t. She’s probably still searching.”
We sat in silence for a moment. The afternoon light shifting across frost-covered windows. Outside, the empty school grounds stretched white and still.
Clare’s thumb made slow circles on the back of my wrist, grounding me into the present.
“What else do you remember?”
The question I’d been dreading.
Looked at our joined palms. At the scars on my knuckles. The calluses that came from years of training. First as a soldier, then as something else entirely.
“Everything.”
Clare waited. Patient.
“I was Special Forces. Master Sergeant Xavier Hale. Green Beret. Served eight years. Honorable discharge.”
Warmth flickered in my ribs despite everything that came after. I’d been a good soldier. Believed in what I was doing. The brotherhood, the mission, the honor of serving something bigger than myself.
“They chose me because of that. The training. The discipline. The ability to follow orders without question.” Bitterness crept in. “Perfect candidate for reconditioning. It was a test for the Quinta generation and the chip, having good men, soldiers with actual training turned into assassins, instead of talented criminals being brainwashed.”
“The arrest was fabricated.” Not a question. She’d already figured it out.
“Armed robbery. Aggravated assault. Evidence manufactured so clean even my lawyer told me to take the plea deal.” Stared at the wall, seeing the interrogation room. The cold fluorescentlights. The detective who wouldn’t meet my gaze while he read charges I hadn’t committed. “I knew it was a trap. Fought it. Nobody believed me.”
My jaw clenched.
“They took me within two months. Transferred to a facility that didn’t exist on any official record. Started conditioning immediately.”
