“No,” I replied. “I opened the windows.”
He smiled.
Inside the center, there was a wall of names.
Children found.
Children still missing.
Children who deserved more than silence.
Near the entrance hung a framed photograph.
Nathaniel at seven, serious-eyed, holding my white rabbit.
Below it was a silver plaque:
Truth is not what destroys a family.
Secrets do.
That evening, after the ceremony, I returned home exhausted but peaceful.
The boys were asleep. The house was quiet. Rain tapped gently against the windows.
I went to my room and found a small box on my bed.
No ribbon.
No threat.
Just my name.
Inside was the black Birkin.
Celeste’s Birkin.
The same one she had carried into my hospital room like a crown.
For one sick second, I thought she had returned.
Then I saw the note.
I sold everything Calloway gave me, but this felt like it belonged to you. Not as an apology. Nothing can be enough for that. Burn it, sell it, bury it. I am going to testify again tomorrow. There are more children. — Celine
