“No,” my mother whispered.
Celeste looked at her almost gently. “You buried an empty grief, Vivienne. Your son lived.”
My father staggered.
I had never seen him stagger.
He gripped the table with both hands. “Where is he?”
Celeste leaned close.
“Now you want the truth.”
I could not look away from Samuel. His tiny mouth moved in sleep. His fist curled beside his cheek. He knew nothing of inheritance, revenge, ledgers, or men who traded children like secrets.
“Give me my son,” I said.
Celeste glanced at me. “I will. When I get the drive.”
My father looked at her. “I don’t have it.”
Her smile vanished.
“Do not insult me.”
“I secured it years ago. Then I gave it away.”
“To whom?”
My father looked at me.
The warehouse went still.
“No,” I said.
He swallowed.
“After Nathaniel died—after I thought he died—I became afraid they would come for you. I hid the drive somewhere no one in Black Harbor could reach.”
