She nodded through sobs. “Yes. Are you the ‘Alex’ she talks about when she thinks I’m asleep? She says your name and cries.”
My knees nearly buckled.
“She says my name?”
“Sometimes,” Isabella whispered. “She says she’s sorry.”
The math hit me like a freight train.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Twelve.”
Twelve.
Elena disappeared ten years ago.
I stepped closer, studying Isabella’s face—the curve of her nose, the stubborn lift of her chin. Elena’s features. And something else.
Mine.
“Take me to her,” I said, my voice breaking. “Now.”
We drove east, away from manicured lawns and into cracked sidewalks and faded paint. Isabella gave directions in a quiet voice.
“Turn at the yellow bridge. Past the laundromat. We live on Elm.”
The building leaned like it was tired of standing. Third floor. Apartment 307.
Inside smelled like damp plaster and cooking oil.
The apartment was one small room. A mattress on the floor. A hot plate. A plastic table with one chair.
And on the mattress—
Elena.
Thin. Too thin. Her skin pale. Coughing before she could even speak.
“Isabella?” she rasped. “Did you sell the—”
Then she saw me.
She froze.
“No,” she whispered. “This isn’t real.”
“It’s real,” I said softly. “It’s me.”