The Graves family jaw.
"You want to impersonate him." Bane's eyes go hard. Not at me—at the situation. At the universe for constructing a scenario where impersonating a kidnapped boy to his mother is the least terrible option. "To his mother."
"I want to keep him alive." I hold his gaze. "If Margot calls the police, Kline disappears Max into a pipeline we'll never trace. You know how omega trafficking works. Once they're moved past the initial holding facility, they're in the wind. He becomes a number in a ledger. Sold at auction. Shipped overseas. Gone."
My voice doesn't crack ongone. But something in my chest does.
"Fine." The word costs Bane something visible. His shoulders drop. His fists unclench. "But I'm helping write it. You don't know how he talks to her."
He's right. I don't. Not really. I've watched Max with Margot—the way he softens, the walls coming down, the careful tenderness he reserves only for her—but I don't know the texture of their private language. The rhythms. The shorthand of a mother and son who survived something together and built a world out of the wreckage.
We pull up Max's phone on one of our burners. I had his device mirrored the morning after he slept in my room—after he collapsed in the kitchen and looked pale as a ghost. I carried him to my bed. Sat in the chair by the window until his breathing evened out. Watched him curl into my sheets like he'd been looking for them his whole life. And before he woke up, I cloned his phone. Told myself it was a security measure. Told myself I'd do it for anyone under this roof. Didn't examine why my hands moved so fast, or why the thought of not knowing where he was at all times made something in my chest go tight and feral.
His texts, his call logs, his photos—all synced to an encrypted backup that updated in real time. Or updated, untilwhatever cell he's in killed the signal. The last sync was 7:47 PM. Several hours before we found the car.
His texts with Margot are a revelation and a knife.
She calls him sweetheart. He calls her Mom when he's being earnest, Margot when he's teasing. His voice in text is casual, slightly formal with everyone except her. Lowercase. Spare punctuation. No emojis except the occasional eye-roll when she sends him motivational quotes at six in the morning. He signs off withlove you—no comma, no period, running it together like it's one word. Like breathing.
I scroll through months of texts and each one is a window into something private. Max complaining about a professor. Margot sending photos of garden plants. Max asking if she needs anything from the store. Margot:Just you home safe, sweetheart.
My hand tightens on the burner until the plastic casing creaks.
He was under my roof. He was my responsibility. And I let him walk out the door.
I set the phone down before I break it.
We compose the first message. Each word chosen like defusing a bomb. Matched to his voice. His patterns. His devastating tendency to make himself small so the people he loves don't have to worry.
Hey. I'm sorry I left like that. I just needed some space. Things with the guys have been rough. Staying with a friend from class. I'm okay. I love you.
I stare at the screen.Things with the guys have been rough.Because that's what Max would say. He'd minimize. He'd translate a kidnapping into a disagreement. He'd protect Margot from the truth even while drowning in it.
He's probably been doing it his whole life. Keeping one bag packed by the door and pretending it's normal. Swallowingpills that stifled his true nature and calling it fine. Begging me to touch him and I said—
I saidno.
The thought hits me like a fist to the sternum. Not now. Notnow. I can't think about that now—about the look on his face when I turned him down, about the way the light went out of his eyes, about how I made a calculated decision to protect him from myself and instead drove him straight out the door and into the arms of people who will—
Stop. Focus. Send the message. Be the machine.
Send.
Margot responds in eleven seconds. She was already awake. Already sensing something was wrong.
Sweetheart are you sure you're okay? You left so fast. I woke up and your room was—I was worried. Which friend? Do you need anything? I can come get you. Please just tell me you're safe.
I read it three times. Each word is Margot's heart on a screen, reaching through the dark for a son who can't reach back. The em dash—your room was–—where she started to describe what she found and couldn't finish.
Bane types the response. His fingers are steadier than mine. I let him because right now my hands are useless. Trembling like a goddamn rookie. Atlas Graves, who's stared down cartel enforcers and federal investigators and his own father's rage, can't hold a phone steady because a twenty-year-old with dark eyes and a vanilla scent is somewhere in this city being treated like cargo.
I'm safe. I promise. Just need a few days to figure some stuff out. Please don't worry. I'll call you soon. Love you.
She responds: I love you more.Please call me tomorrow? Just so I can hear your voice?
Bane sets the phone down. Presses his palms against his eyes. His shoulders shake once—a single, violent tremor—and then he's still.
Just so I can hear your voice.
