“We’re not your family,” Margaret said, her voice gaining steadiness the closer she came to the truth. “You know who they are.”
“I saved them,” Greenfield snapped. “I gave them a better life than they would ever have had with you. Look at them. Strong, healthy, productive. They have skills. They have purpose.”
“They have no choice,” Jon said.
“I gave them new identities,” Greenfield shouted back. “Better identities.”
The 3 young women looked from him to Margaret and Jon with expressions that made Margaret think of ice cracking in spring. Not sudden. Not clean. But real.
Agent Taylor stepped forward just enough to be heard.
“You don’t have to take anyone’s word for this,” she said. “We can prove the truth. DNA. Medical records. Photographs from when you were children.”
“Photographs?” Stella asked.
Margaret reached slowly into her bag and withdrew the worn leather wallet she had carried for years, thick with pictures whose edges had softened from handling. Her hands shook as she slid one free.
“This is your 6th birthday,” she said.
She held up the photograph.
The 3 young women leaned forward.
The image showed 3 identical little girls in matching dresses, grinning before a birthday cake. Missing teeth. Scraped knees. Bright eyes. Life before the world split.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Sophie spoke first.
“I remember that dress,” she said faintly. “I remember how the fabric felt.”
Margaret’s breath caught.
“You fought over who got to wear the pink one,” she said. “We bought 3 identical pink dresses so there wouldn’t be another argument.”
“No,” Greenfield said sharply. “Those aren’t real memories. You’re planting things in their heads. Girls, come inside now.”
None of them moved.
Stella stared at Margaret’s throat.
“The woman who used to sing,” she whispered. “She had a mole right there.”
She pointed to the small birthmark near Margaret’s neck.
Sarah’s eyes filled.
“And the man,” she said, looking at Jon. “The man used to make pancakes on Sunday mornings. He let us help flip them.”
Jon made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a sob.
“You stood on chairs by the stove,” he said. “I had to hold your hands so you wouldn’t burn yourselves.”
Greenfield’s authority broke audibly.
