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"I know," I say. "There's more, Blaire, and you won't like it."

"Tell me," she says.

"The family office met with us tonight. Starting tomorrow, there'll be a security detail for you and the boys. A driver, someone near the house, and coordination with the camp. They'll introduce themselves to you before they do anything, and you can call me about any of it at any hour." I make myself keep going.

"And before the Trust can recognize the boys in any way, the lawyers need a DNA test. It's a cheek swab at a pediatric clinic in San Francisco. It takes a few minutes, and the boys don't have to know what it's for."

The silence on the other end of the line stretches so long that I check the screen to make sure the call hasn't dropped.

It hasn't. She's still there. I can hear the faint sound of the boys' voices through an open window behind her, Miles shouting something and Wells shouting back. And I know what she's thinking, because I watched her say it in her hallway less than twenty-four hours ago. Men she's never met, in a city she doesn't live in, are deciding who stands outside her door. Lawyers who have never seen her sons want proof that they are who they are. Everything she was afraid of is happening, and it's happening on my family's schedule.

"You approved it," she says finally. It isn't a question.

"The security, yes," I say.

"The photographers aren't going away, and I won't take chances with them. The test isn't optional if the boys are ever going to have what belongs to them."

"Before you called me," she says.

I open my mouth to explain that there wasn't time, that the photographers were already at the camp, that every hour mattered. I close it again, because all of that is true, and none of it is what she's asking.

"Yes," I say. "Before I called you."

She doesn't shout. I almost wish she would. When she speaks again, her voice is quiet and very tired.

"I know it's necessary, Ross. I'm not stupid. I know the photographers are real, and I know your family's lawyers need their paperwork. I just need you to understand that knowing it's necessary doesn't make it feel any less like losing them."

"You're not losing them," I say.

"You don't know that," she says. "Neither do I."

In the garden behind her, one of the boys calls for her. She covers the phone for a moment, and I hear her voice change completely, warm and easy, telling him she'll be right there. Then she comes back to me, and the warmth is gone.

"I have to go," she says.

"Send me the names of the people who'll be outside my house."

"I will," I tell her.

"Blaire—"

But she's already gone.

I sit on the edge of my childhood bed for a long time with the phone in my hand. Every decision I made tonight was the right one. I'd make each of them again. But I'm starting to understand that being right about what has to happen doesn't make Blaire wrong about how it feels, and that from where she's standing, the difference between protecting her sons and taking them might be almost impossible to see.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Blaire

The security team arrives at eight o'clock on Thursday morning, precisely when Ross's message said they would. There are two of them. Thomas Hale is in his fifties, gray at the temples, with the kind of calm, forgettable face that I suspect is part of the job. Grace Morgan is younger, dressed in jeans and a linen jacket, and she could pass for any mother on her way to drop off her kids. They stand on my front step and introduce themselves without coming inside, and Thomas hands me a card with both of their numbers on it.

"We won't be in your way, Ms. Wilson," he says.

"You'll see a car on the street and one of us near the house. If you go somewhere, we follow at a distance. If anything concerns you, call either of us, day or night."

"And the boys?" I ask.

"Grace will be at the camp during the day," Thomas says.