Aunt June held it beneath a blue light.
A tiny symbol glowed near the edge.
A wing.
A ghostly, broken wing.
Mom whispered, “He marked it.”
Before anyone could move, every monitor in the room flickered.
Static filled the screens.
Then a face appeared.
Elias Voss.
Older than in the photograph. Thinner. One side of his face scarred from temple to jaw. But alive.
“Rachel,” he said, smiling faintly. “Still running toward danger. I always admired that.”
Mom stepped in front of me.
“Where is Carter?”
“Safe. For now.”
“What do you want?”
Voss leaned closer to the camera.
“Not what. Who.”
His eyes shifted, as if he could see through the screen directly to me.
“The boy.”
Mom’s voice turned cold.
“You come near my son, I’ll bury you properly this time.”
Voss smiled wider.
“You never told him, did you?”
The room went silent.
Mom did not move.
