Page 87 of What Goes Around

“Don’t those keys expire?” I asked.

“Not if the system thinks the device is still alive,” she said. “So the key never dies. It just quietly renews itself as long as she doesn’t change her password.”

“And if something does break? If she changes her password or..”

“I can get back in,” she said simply. “Her security is a joke. Half her passwords are ‘apple123’ or ‘1234Apple.’ She hasn’t changed them in years.”

I thanked her for the clone, then told her I wanted to hire her. That I’d have access to significant money soon and I needed more than just this. Deeper work. Broader work.

She agreed without hesitation.

Over the months, we drifted into something like friendship. I learned she had an older brother, eight years her senior, a cop in our own town. She spoke of him with an odd mix of exasperation and warmth.

When the basketball team scandal exploded, he brought it up at a family dinner. The moment Amy pulled him aside and told him the truth, that she had been drugged, barely conscious, and that I had been the one to get her out, he nearly lost it.

He’d gone silent at first.

Then furious.

Then devastated.

He told her she should have called him immediately. That if she’d gone to the hospital for blood work, they could have nailed those boys to the wall. Built a case with teeth.

In the end, though, he respected her decision not to come forward.

He didn’t agree with it, but he respected it.

He also told her he wanted to thank me in person for saving his baby sister.

Chapter 27: My Mother’s Gift

From the scraps I’d dug out about my mother, Amy finally had enough to work with: a birth date and a birthplace in France. It wasn’t much, but with Amy, it was enough. She began digging. Hacking birth registries in France. Cross-checking census databases. Pulling immigration records no ordinary person could ever access. Within days she had tons of info.

My mother, Ines Laurent, had been the youngest of three. She had two older brothers. Her parents had been in their forties when they had her, an unexpected child.

They were still alive.

Seventy-eight and seventy-four now. Frail. Living somewhere on the outskirts of Lyon.

It took me weeks to gather the courage to write to them and the email ended up painfully simple:

Bonjour,

My name is Ashley Richards. I believe I may be related to you.

I have been searching for the family of my mother, Ines Laurent Richards.

I recently found information that led me to your names, and I hope I am not mistaken.

I took a DNA test, and if you are willing, confirming from your side would tell us the truth.

I have never known my mother’s family, but I would like to.

If this message has reached the wrong people, I apologize.

If not… I hope we can speak soon.

Respectfully,