My breath caught.
Connor stopped moving.
Melinda closed her eyes.
“What?” I said.
Kenneth slid one paper toward me.
I did not touch it at first.
The logo at the top was unfamiliar, but the language beneath it was not. Cryogenic storage. Embryology transfer. Release authorization.
Medical words. Legal words.
Words from a life I thought had ended.
“Kenneth,” I whispered.
He spoke carefully. “The clinic where you and Connor underwent treatment closed two years ago after merging with a larger network. Some stored genetic materials were transferred to partner facilities. You were never notified.”
“That’s impossible,” I said.
But even as I said it, I knew impossible was not the same as untrue.
Connor’s face had changed.
The arrogance was still there, but it was thinner now. Like paint over a cracked wall.
