Chapter 6

"Sisi" was a child's nickname for a woman she barely knew. Emory only remembered fragments: a voice that sang, a hand that held his, the smell of soap and sunshine. He had been two — barely two — when his mother stopped kissing his forehead at night, when the visits became shorter, when the red blanket was the only thing of hers he had left.

"He remembers," Ronan said. His voice was not calm anymore. "He remembers her. You told him she died. You told him his own mother was dead and you told him she died while she was still alive, somewhere, out there, terrified and alone."

Mireille's face had closed down, a steel door. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"YOU ERASED HER."

Ronan's voice cracked out across the courtyard. Emory flinched in his arms. Dorsey took one step forward, a protective instinct, but Ronan was already reining himself in — the boy was still there, still holding the blanket, still watching with those dark, old eyes.

"I'm sorry," Ronan said, low, into Emory's hair. "I'm sorry, son. I didn't mean to yell."

Emory didn't cry. He just looked back at Mireille, his small face unreadable.

"She said Mama went to heaven," Emory whispered. "She said I wasn't allowed to talk about her anymore. She said it was a secret."

Ronan's arms tightened around him. He could feel the boy's ribs, the weight of seven years lived on lies. And he made a silent vow, there in the courtyard with the sun going down and the shadows reaching across the flagstones: he would find every piece of that lie and he would take it apart with his bare hands.