Page 93 of Trapped Truth

“Woah, Blaine. What is it?”

“She drew this?” His eyes dart over the page, almost frenetic.

“Yes, just now. It’s not much to go on.”

“And the name… This is the woman?”

“What’s going on?” I steady him with a hand on the shoulder.

Seeing shades of disbelief and panic contort his usually calm mask almost unhinges me too. But that isn’t the most unnerving thing. It’s the emerging spark of light in his navy-flecked obsidians, singing a tale of hope I’m not sure I recognise.

“Blaine?”

Tongue darting out, he wets his lips. “Yeah.”

“Talk to me. What is it?”

“Do you remember when I told you about my mother?”

“Um… of course. She was returned to her masters decades ago, right? You searched for her and assumed she’d passed away after all these years.”

His neck must hurt from the ferocity of his nodding.

“I’m lost. What does she have to do with this?”

“My search, it was fruitless.” The words rush from Blaine, his fingers trembling on the page. “But it turned up two things—an old image and a name.”

The ground falls out from underneath my feet. Now I’m as unsteady as him. Throat undulating to a brisk sprint, Blaine’s voice cracks with raw, near-childlike heartbreak as he clutches the paper in a death grip.

“Her name was Angela.”

CHAPTER 16

AXEL

LONELY WORLD - ACRES

While observing the live recording of my clone’s testimony, it isn’t difficult to equate this person with the half-starved, gangly thirteen-year-old who crashed back into our lives in the most violent way possible.

He has the same detached, clipped tone, the same cagey mannerisms. Hell, he even has the same matter-of-fact delivery while discussing death without a second thought.

Don’t get me wrong, there was no love lost when my father died. The man was an abusive piece of shit. He hated me and broke my mother in every possible way a person can be broken. That doesn’t mean I condoned Gunnar stabbing him forty-three fucking times then pulling another vanishing act.

“How does a homeless kid on the street go on to become a word-class assassin?” Warner taps the tip of his pen on an open notepad.

Across the meeting table, Gunnar is dressed casually. The dark T-shirt and jeans must’ve been loaned to him. Does Sabre have a lost property department? Maybe they can find a home for his troublesome backside too.

“Hunger leads humans down many dark paths.” His reply is ominous. “I ran away from every foster home the government put me in. Eventually, they gave up trying.”

“Someone must’ve taken you under their wing.”

“Let’s just say that for a hot meal, I was willing to do anything. Lie. Steal. Vandalise. Even running drugs or weapons. All I wanted was to find a safe place to sleep at night.”

“You were raised by criminals?” Warner cocks his head.

“More like passed between warring gangs no better than a hunk of meat.”

Nauseated, I drag in a stuttered mouthful of air. Passed between… Like a commodity. Shit, it’s all becoming clear. And I really don’t fucking like the full image.