My mother lifted the pistol.
Calloway’s guards lifted theirs.
The air tightened instantly.
Samuel stirred.
A tiny cry rose from the bassinet.
Every weapon in the room suddenly seemed monstrous.
“Put them down,” I said.
No one moved.
“I said put them down!”
My voice cracked through the warehouse.
And to my shock, my mother lowered hers first.
Then my father raised both hands.
Calloway smiled. “Motherhood suits you.”
I wanted to tear his face apart.
He turned to Celeste. “You were supposed to deliver the drive quietly.”
Celeste’s eyes burned. “You told me my mother ruined everything.”
“She did.”
“You told me Jonathan killed her.”
“He may as well have.”
My father looked at him. “Where is Nathaniel?”
Calloway sighed, as if inconvenienced.
“Alive,” he said.
My mother made a sound like a wounded animal.
Alive.
My brother was alive.
The dead boy in our portraits. The ghost at our dinners. The absence that shaped my entire family.
