Chapter 2: The Woman at the Gate
She was brought in through the side entrance, two guards on either side.
She didn't look dangerous.
She looked exhausted.
Thin coat.
Worn shoes.
Hands that hadn't been still since she sat down.
But her eyes were steady.
"You know my children," I said.
It wasn't a question.
"I know what's making them sick." Her voice was quiet.
Certain.
"Every specialist in the country has seen them."
"Not every specialist knows what I know."
I leaned forward.
"And what exactly do you know?"
She looked at me for a long moment.
"I know it isn't leukemia."
The room went still.
"Their charts say—"
"Their charts are wrong." She didn't flinch.
"Or they were made to look that way."
My jaw tightened.
"Choose your next words carefully."
She reached into her coat and placed something on the desk.
A photograph.
Genevieve.
My wife.
Standing beside a man I didn't recognize — inside a building I had never seen.
"Who took this?"
"She did," the woman said softly.
"She sent it to me two weeks before she d*ed."
My hands went cold.
"How did you know Genevieve?"
She looked down at the photograph, then back at me.
"Because she was my daughter."
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