Photograph unavailable.
“Hart,” Thomas whispered.
“E.H.”
Lane arranged contact through local authorities.
The woman agreed to speak.
Not in Chicago.
By video.
At two that afternoon, the screen lit up.
An elderly woman appeared.
White hair.
Sharp cheekbones.
Michael made a sound I had never heard from him.
“Evie?”
Her face changed.
“Mikey.”
Michael sat down.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Evelyn smiled.
“You got old.”
Michael laughed through tears.
“So did you.”
Thomas stepped into view.
Evelyn’s smile disappeared.
“Tom.”
“Hello, Evie.”
Forty years of family history sat inside that greeting.
Lane introduced herself.
Evelyn listened.
Then asked one question.
“Is Charles alive?”
“Yes.”
“Pity.”
Lane explained the messages.
Evelyn frowned.
“I didn’t send them.”
“Did you fund the Holloway Foundation?”
“Yes.”
Michael looked betrayed.
“You worked with Mercer?”
“For twelve years.”
Thomas said, “You built the network.”
Evelyn sighed.
“Part of it.”
I leaned closer.
“People d/i/ed because of that network.”
