Earlier, drugs dulled the noise. Now, everything was exposed nerve.
Alex held the elevator door open. “This is going to sound impossible in your current state,” he murmured. “It’s still true.”
“Get to it,” Audrey muttered, the words slurring. The elevator doors closed shut with a quiet metallic sigh. They didn’t speak. It should have helped, but it didn’t.
Alex exhaled slowly. “A few months ago, Somali anti-terror police issued a warrant for a woman traveling on a fake Kenyan passport,” he said. “She was using the name, Lynn Faye Fisher.”
“Somalia?” Audrey said. “You’ve been digging internationally. That’s not casual research.”
He drew a slim file from his coat and handed it to her. The paper seemed weightier than expected, meticulously copied by someone wary of digital traces.
She struggled with the tab but managed to open the file. Inside were mismatched documents. Another page listed distant places, making it all feel impossible. A photo clipped greeted her on the second page. It was her mother in profile, older, sterner, hair shorter than Audrey remembered. Her mother wore dark glasses and a scarf, standing by a fenced loading yard next to a convoy truck.
Audrey pushed her thumb to the page. More records were inside, forming a distinct pattern. She looked up slowly. “You had all this.”
“I had enough,” Alex said. “That identity connects to several others over the last decade. One belonged to a dead US citizen.” His eyes hardened. “Sophia Sarafian.”
The air inside the elevator thickened. Dread pressed in, making it hard for Audrey to breathe. New facts collided with old pain, both close to swamping her.
“No,” Audrey said, weaker now. Fire exploded through her memory. Flames crawled up the kitchen walls. Her mother’s silhouette twisted inside the blaze. But she was not running. Sophia hadn’t screamed; she’d just watched.
The fire had never made sense.
“No,” she said again. The word came out too fast. Alex remained silent. His heavy, wordless sympathy pressed hard against Audrey. The silence brought a sharper jab of isolation, making the grief harder to bear.
“She was cold,” Audrey said hoarsely. “Selfish. But a terrorist?”
Still, he said nothing.
Audrey laughed bitterly. “Really, Alex?”
“You hated her after high school began,” he said. “And you said from the start she was involved that night.”
“I said she was involved withhim. The man in the backyard,” Audrey shot back.
Alex didn’t fight her on his existence this time. As the elevator flew upward, she pushed gently at his thoughts, testing the edges. Her mind was sluggish from the drug, though, and she retreated. She wanted another hit so badly her teeth ached. Anything to make this easier. If this were true? The fire hadn’t been some single, insane explosion of madness.
It had been a move—a piece of a bigger whole.
“I thought you didn’t believe me,” she said.
He looked tired, posture sagging. Honest fatigue, not surprise or defensiveness, made her resentment surge. His regret provoked her frustration, and the questions came unbidden.
When did you stop believing I was wrong? Or when did you decide knowing mattered more than telling me?
“You weren’t just trying to get me out,” she whispered.
He stared at the elevator numbers instead of her. That alone made Audrey’s anger flare hotter.
“You were investigating me.”
His silence was a confession, but she thought he might apologize.
He didn’t.
The elevator dinged, and Alex walked into the hallway like he lived there. “Pack what matters,” he said, motioning for her to follow him. “I think Sophia found this address. We’re staying at my place.”
“Wait,” Audrey said, grabbing his sleeve before the elevator doors could close. “Show me something I can actually understand.”
