As a wife, I had spent half a century trying to warm a stone, only to be regarded as an enemy. As a mother, my devotion had bred a stranger who couldn't—or wouldn't—distinguish right from wrong. He saw my pain and chose the disease over the woman who raised him.
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and slipped into my shoes. I didn't look at him.
"Do you know where Amy lives now?"
My son stiffened. He'd expected a fight, or tears—not this hollow resignation. Guilt flickered in his eyes, but he gave me the address.
I scribbled it down and turned to leave.
Heavy footsteps approached from behind. Elijah grabbed my arm.
"You're going to find Amy. Take me with you. I have to see her."
It wasn't a request. It was a compulsion.
I glanced back. The urgency in his eyes was foreign—I had never been the recipient of such intensity. I nodded once, saying nothing, and slowed my pace just enough for him to keep up.
Speed was the priority. We flew.
Seventy years on this earth, and I had never set foot on a plane. Years ago, when Elijah was still whole, he had promised me a trip.