“My mother screamed your name.”
“Because she thought I had betrayed her.”
“Had you?”
His face folded with something like grief.
Before he could answer, my cracked phone buzzed.
The screen lit up.
Unknown Number.
A video message.
I should not have opened it.
But I did.
The image was dark, shaky. A basement, maybe. A single bare bulb. Then the camera shifted, and I saw Dylan sitting in a chair, his face bruised, his hands tied.
A distorted voice spoke from behind the camera.
“Hello, Claire.”
My breath stopped.
The camera turned.
An old man leaned close enough for me to see the lower half of his face. Thin lips. White stubble. A gold signet ring marked with a crown wrapped in thorns.
“The Quillans have always told beautiful lies,” he said. “Now come hear mine.”
The camera pulled back.
Behind him, on the wall, hung a portrait of my mother.
Not young Margaret.
Not Martha Pearson.
My mother as I remembered her.
Older.
Alive.
Holding today’s newspaper.
Then she looked directly into the camera and whispered:
“Claire, don’t trust the man who brought you home.”
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