The date was twenty-five years ago. The ink had faded to brown, but the words were clear.
‘They brought another one in today. Young. Terrified. Silver burns on his wrists and the look in his eyes that I’m starting to recognize. The look that says he had a life before this. A family. A home.
I’m not supposed to care. Thiago says caring compromises the work.
But I’m starting to think the work is what’s compromised.’
My hands trembled. I closed the journal and pressed it against my chest.
And it was the first time since I’d walked into this compound that my mother was in the room with me.
46
— • —
Solomon
She wasn’t in her room.
My jaw tightened. The entire infiltration plan had been built around reaching her room on the second floor.
But she wasn’t there.
I closed my eyes and reached for the bond.
It was still muted. The wall between us hadn’t dissolved, but proximity had thinned it to gauze. Her presence pulsed behind it, faint, directional, a compass needle pointing south and down.
I abandoned the planned route and followed the pull.
The bond tugged me around a corner and there she was.
Walking toward me down the hallway, a leather journal pressed against her chest with both arms, head down, moving fast. She didn’t see me until she was three meters away, and when she looked up, her entire body locked.
Mismatched eyes. Wider than I’d ever seen them.
“Solomon...”
“It’s me.”
Footsteps echoed from the corridor behind her. Two sets, moving with purpose, rounding the far corner.
She didn’t scream or freeze. Her hand closed around my wrist and she yanked me sideways, through the nearest door she could reach. Her keycard swiped the lock and we were through before the footsteps cleared the turn.
Mira pressed the door shut and leaned against it, breathing hard. Her eyes were still on mine, wide with adrenaline, when the footsteps passed outside and faded down the corridor.
Then she looked at the room. The color drained from her face.
“Oh no.” She pressed her hand over her mouth. “This is his office. This is Thiago’s office.”
I scanned the space. Security feeds on a mounted screen, the images cycling between perimeter views. Filing cabinets with combination locks.
A framed photograph on the desk: Thiago and a woman with copper hair, smiling. Not her, but they do have a resemblance. So it can only be one person.
Mira’s mother.
“He’s not here,” I said.
“He’s leading whatever’s happening outside. He always does. Hands on.” She was still pressed against the door, the journal held against her chest, and her intense gaze moved over me, making my skin burn.
