Chapter 10 - The Son Eleanor Chose
Marcus did not speak to his mother for almost an hour.
He stood by the safe-house window staring at a wall across the alley.
Eleanor sat at the kitchen table with both hands wrapped around cold coffee.
Finally Marcus asked, “Was Owen there when you chose?”
She nodded.
That was the part that destroyed him.
“He heard you?”
“Yes.”
Marcus laughed once and covered his face.
I wanted to touch him.
I didn’t.
Some pain has to belong to the person carrying it.
Eleanor looked at me.
“You think I’m a monster.”
“I think you hurt people and call it protection.”
She flinched.
Maybe because it sounded familiar.
Maybe because it sounded like Marcus too.
Rook entered with a phone.
“Owen wants to meet Elena.”
Marcus turned.
“No.”
I said, “Yes.”
“Elena—”
“He wants the key. I want answers.”
Rook shook his head.
“He chose the location.”
“So did Victor last time.”
“And we nearly died.”
I looked at him.
“Then choose the second location.”
That earned the smallest hint of a smile.
We met Owen in an abandoned conservatory owned by one of Palisade’s shell foundations.
Glass roof. Dead plants. Rain tapping above us.
Owen arrived alone.
Marcus stared at him.
Owen looked back.
“Little brother.”
Marcus’s voice was raw.
“Don’t call me that.”
Owen’s smile was sad.
“Fair.”
I stepped forward.
“You asked for me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Victor thinks you’re emotional enough to release the archive.”
“And you?”
“I think you’re angry enough not to.”
Marcus snapped, “What do you want?”
Owen looked at him.
“Mom told you she chose you.”
“Yes.”
“She left out why.”
Eleanor’s face went white.
Owen noticed.
“Tell him.”
“Stop.”
“Tell him why Victor only offered one son back.”
Marcus looked at her.
Eleanor could not speak.
Owen answered for her.
“Because one of us had already agreed to work for him.”
Marcus stared at Owen.
“You?”
Owen laughed.
“No.”
He looked directly at Marcus.
“You.”
Marcus shook his head.
“I was sixteen.”
“Exactly.”
Owen pulled a file from his coat and threw it onto the table.
ASSET 12 — CONSENT.
Marcus’s signature was at the bottom.
And beneath it was another signature.
Celeste Navarro.
My mother had signed Marcus into Victor’s program.
At the conservatory, Marcus could barely stop looking at Owen. The brothers shared tiny movements I had never noticed because I had never seen them together: the same way they tilted their heads when listening, the same habit of tapping one finger against the thumb when angry.
“You got Dad’s nose,” Marcus said suddenly.
Owen’s expression flickered. “You got Mom’s ability to say the wrong thing at funerals.”
Marcus almost laughed. Then the years returned between them.
Owen looked at me. “He told you I was dead?”
“He believed it.”
“Must be nice.”
Marcus stiffened. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means dead people get remembered kindly. Missing people get negotiated.”
Eleanor whispered his name.
Owen turned on her. “Do you know what Victor told me when you picked Marcus? He said a mother’s first instinct is always the honest one.”
Eleanor began crying. Victor had known exactly where to place the knife. Not in the body. In the explanation.
Whatever else Owen had become, part of him was still sixteen years old, waiting to hear that the choice had been impossible.
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