Elena whispered, “He wrote this.”
Jack stared.
“Why?”
“To keep you from looking for me.”
“Why would he care?”
“Because he was selling information to Rourke.”
Jack felt cold.
Elena continued.
“The FBI discovered it nineteen months ago.”
“Nineteen months.”
“Yes.”
“And you came now.”
Her face tightened.
“The investigation into Keane was sealed.”
“Nineteen months.”
“I wasn’t allowed to contact anyone connected to the original case.”
“Seven years, Elena.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
She stopped.
Jack pressed his palms against the workbench.
He needed something solid.
“Why are you Maya?”
“My protected identity.”
“You kept it.”
“For now.”
“Why?”
“Because my legal restoration isn’t complete.”
“Are you in danger?”
“No.”
She hesitated.
Jack noticed.
“Elena.”
“Not immediate danger.”
“What does that mean?”
“Rourke is in federal prison. Keane is awaiting sentencing. Most of the network is gone.”
“Most.”
“Yes.”
Jack looked toward the house again.
“My daughter is in there.”
“I would never have come if I thought Sophie was unsafe.”
“You thought a federal marshal was safe.”
The words struck.
Elena looked down.
Jack immediately regretted them.
Not enough to apologize.
Yet.
She folded the forged letter carefully.
“I have something else.”
“What?”
“In my house.”
“No.”
“Jack.”
“No more surprises.”
“This one matters.”
“Everything matters suddenly.”
She nodded.
Then reached into her handbag.
Not the house.
She had expected this conversation.
She removed a thick sealed envelope.
Placed it on the workbench.
“What is that?”
“Copies from the Keane investigation.”
Jack did not touch them.
“What kind of copies?”
“Letters.”
Her voice shook.
“The ones I wrote.”
Jack stared.
Elena opened the envelope.
There were seven birthday envelopes.
Different handwriting maturity on the outside because Elena had written Sophie’s name carefully, sometimes in different pens, from different protected addresses.
SOPHIE SULLIVAN.
Jack touched the first.
The date was seven years earlier.
Sophie’s first birthday.
He looked at Elena.
“You wrote this?”
“Yes.”
“They never came.”
“I know.”
Jack almost told her again not to say it.
Instead he opened the first.
Dear Sophie,
Today you turn one.
I have spent all morning trying to remember exactly how your hair smelled after your bath. This is probably a strange thing to write, but I am afraid I will forget ordinary things before I am allowed to see you again.
Your father sings badly. I hope he is still doing it.
Jack stopped.
He had sung Sophie to sleep almost every night that year.
No federal marshal could know the way Elena teased him about it unless Elena had told him.
The letter continued.
I need you to know something even if you do not read this until you are older.
I did not leave because I wanted a different life.
You were my life.
Jack lowered the page.
His vision blurred.
Elena stood silently.
He opened another.
Second birthday.
Another.
Third.