Chapter 3 - The Photograph From Her Apartment
Tatum stopped being afraid for herself.
Fear for yourself had limits.
Fear for your child did not.
She grabbed Declan's phone so quickly it nearly fell from his hand.
The photograph showed Maya asleep beneath her purple blanket.
The little night-light shaped like a moon glowed beside her bed.
The timestamp was current.
Someone had been inside the apartment.
Tatum's hands shook so badly she could barely sign.
I have to go home.
Declan blocked her path.
She tried moving around him.
He caught her hand.
She pulled away.
Move.
Declan shook his head.
If you run home, you're doing exactly what they want.
That's my daughter.
I know.
The calmness of his answer enraged her.
No. You don't know.
Declan's expression changed.
He reached into his jacket and removed his phone again.
He typed quickly.
A call connected through video.
A gray-haired woman appeared.
Behind her was a familiar hallway.
Tatum's hallway.
Then the camera turned.
Mrs. Alvarez appeared.
Alive.
Terrified, but alive.
Beside her stood two unfamiliar men.
Declan signed.
Mine.
Tatum stared.
His people.
One of them moved into Maya's room.
The bed was empty.
Tatum's heart stopped.
Then the camera turned toward the kitchen.
Maya was there, wrapped in a coat, holding Mrs. Alvarez's hand.
Safe.
Tatum covered her mouth.
Declan signed.
The photograph was taken before my people arrived. Maya is safe now. They're moving her somewhere secure.
Tatum wanted to collapse.
Instead, she looked at him.
How did your people get there so fast?
Declan hesitated.
That hesitation gave her the answer.
He had already had someone watching the apartment.
Tatum's relief disappeared.
You've been watching us.
Declan didn't deny it.
Why?
He looked toward the cellar stairs.
They had little time.
Still, he answered.
Years earlier, before Declan controlled the Morrow Collective, he had been seventeen and newly deaf after an explosion that killed his older brother.
The world around him had suddenly become inaccessible.
People spoke around him as though he wasn't there.
Doctors discussed him instead of with him.
His father considered deafness weakness.
Then a volunteer interpreter had appeared at the rehabilitation center.
Her name was Lena Reed.
Tatum's mother.
Tatum stared at him.
Her mother had died when Tatum was nineteen.
She rarely spoke about her because grief had a way of turning memories into knives.
Lena had taught Declan sign language.
Not formally.
Patiently.
Day after day.
She had taught an angry seventeen-year-old boy that silence did not mean helplessness.
Years later, Declan discovered Lena had died.
He learned she had a daughter.
Then, eventually, a granddaughter.
Maya.
When he discovered Maya was deaf, he quietly arranged financial support through a foundation.
Not charity, he explained.
A debt.
Tatum's eyes filled.
My mother never told me about you.
She promised me she wouldn't.
Why?
Declan looked away.
Then signed:
Because she knew what my family was.
Before Tatum could ask more, the cellar door opened upstairs.
Voices.
They had been found.
Declan sent one message.
Then handed Tatum a small key.
He pointed toward the rear wine racks.
Behind the third rack was another exit.
But this time, he didn't follow.
Go.
Tatum shook her head.
What about you?
They want me.
They want me too.
Declan's mouth tightened.
Your daughter needs you.
Tatum thought of Maya.
Then she thought of her mother.
A woman who had apparently once refused to abandon a frightened deaf teenager.
Tatum looked at Declan.
My mother didn't leave you.
His eyes widened slightly.
Neither will I.
The cellar door crashed open.
May you like
And Tatum realized she had just chosen a side in a war she didn't understand.
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