then began to age him. A number beneath the photo went upward from 3, 4, 5, and the little boy slowly morphed into a teenager. Marco stopped on 18. He pulled Ethan’s cell photo back over to compare.
“Holy shit,” Ethan said softly.
Jack was Landon Cunningham—I’d swallow my own tongue if he wasn’t.
“Still think this is a coincidence?” Gage asked Sebastian.
Sebastian met his glare, and I swear the room temperature dropped a few degrees. “It seems I was wrong. I don’t mind admitting to my mistakes.”
Gage flushed. Teresa sighed, and I was totally lost. But I wasn’t without my favorite tension breaker, so I leaned across the table toward them. “Seriously, do I need to whip out a measuring stick, or what?”
“I will research this connection further,” Marco said, louder than usual to get everyone’s attention. “In the meantime, a visit to Thatcher may be in order.”
“To rub the past in his face?” Sebastian asked.
“To see what he knows of recent events, as well as inform him of our discovery.”
“I want to be certain first,” Teresa said. “Certain that the boy from the warehouse really is Landon Cunningham, and that Landon is also Thatcher’s son.”
“Of course,
“Can your program de-age a photo, too?” Ethan asked. “Might be worth trying that on Jill, just to see if she supposedly died fifteen years ago, too.”
“Good idea,” Teresa said.
“I will do that, as well,” Marco said.
“If we do talk to Derek, I’d like to be there,” Ethan said. “He trusts me, so he’ll know we aren’t trying to jerk him around with this kind of news.”
Teresa nodded. “All right. Renee?”
“What?” I said.
“I want you to go with him.”
A chill rippled down my spine. I hadn’t set foot on Manhattan in fifteen years, and I had no intention of going now. “Why me?”
“Because you saw those two kids up close and personal, just like Ethan.”
“You know my diplomacy skills are about as good as your Spanish.”
She gave me a wry smile. “I trust you to behave and do your job.”
“Which is going to be what, exactly?”
“Presenting Thatcher with whatever evidence we have, and then finding out what he knows about his son possibly being alive and a criminal.”
I could do that. “Okay.”
“Good. I’ll let you guys know what Marco finds.”
We were dismissed. I moved slowly, hoping for a chance to talk to Teresa alone, but she hung back with Marco. Gage made a fast escape, too. Not that I’d have chased after him. Gage was stubbornly laconic when it suited him.
Ethan, on the other hand, was waiting for me outside in the hallway. “You don’t look all that excited to be working with me again,” he said, falling into step next to me.
“It’s not you, Windy, it’s the situation,” I replied.
“We can have Thatcher brought to the observation tower. You don’t have to fly to the Warren to talk to him.” The Warren being the name of the old apartment building outside Central Park where the prisoners had settled.
“Am I that transparent?”
“Slightly opaque.”
“Gee, thanks.” I chewed on my upper lip. “Can we really do that? Question him at the observation tower?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Thanks.”
We walked in silence for a bit, until we found ourselves outside heading toward the open field on the north end of the island. Past the foundations of brick homes long since destroyed. A place called Fort Jay had once stood farther out past the fields, and it was now a barren hole in the ground.
“So was that a little awkward just now, or was it me?” Ethan asked.
“You mean with Gage and Sebastian?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not you.”
“Have you talked to Teresa lately?”
“Not about anything too serious. You?”
“No.”
Half a dozen people were on one of the fields doing self-defense exercises. Marco usually taught those classes, but one of the Greens (i.e., new, untrained Metas) who’d joined us during the earthquake cleanup was also a martial arts instructor, and he’d been helping out. We settled on a wooden bench under a tree with leaves just turning yellow.
“Do you think something’s going on with them?” I asked, stretching my feet out in front of me—normally, not all crazy bendy.
“With Teresa and Gage? Or Teresa and Sebastian?”
“Either. Both? I don’t know. All I know is the vibe was freaking weird.”
“Yeah.” He lifted his left hand and inspected the visible fingers, flexing each one as though testing to see if they were still attached. The bandage looked tight.
“Sorry about this morning.” The words got out before I could stop them.
Ethan shifted on the bench and stared at me. “For what?”
I hadn’t meant to apologize out loud. “Not being more useful. Not shooting them both and stopping this faster. You getting smashed into a wall. Take your pick.”
“You were very useful this morning. You did the best you could against two very powerful Metas. My getting smashed into a wall wasn’t your fault.” He pulled a face. “Besides, you’ve seen my track record for attracting injuries, so it was probably inevitable.”
“We’re all pretty good at getting ourselves hurt.”
He wrapped his right hand around my left and squeezed. I returned the gesture, grateful for the support and the understanding. It’s what I loved most about my friends—I didn’t have to explain things. They knew. We gazed out past the training exercises to the Manhattan skyline, and I couldn’t help wondering what it had looked like fifty years ago. Long before destruction cut down its tallest buildings. Before the world’s tallest fence rose up around it and all bridges were destroyed. When it had once been a thriving metropolis full of the hopes and dreams of its residents.
Long before the battles between Rangers and Banes destroyed it all.
We sat there until our cell phones buzzed with identical summonses back to the War Room. Teresa and Marco were still there. She handed us a tablet with the information we needed.
“I found a marriage license from the state of Georgia,” Marco said, “between Jennifer Elizabeth Cunningham and Derek Alan Thatcher.” The date was the year before the official outbreak of the War. “The marriage was invalidated two months later because it came to light that Thatcher was only seventeen.”
Ethan gave a start. His mouth puckered up. I did a few mental calculations to peg Thatcher’s age at thirty- seven or -eight. Made me wonder if Thatcher looked older or younger in person. His nonwife was twenty-nine when she died, making her twenty-four when they were married. Interesting.
“The age of consent in Georgia is sixteen,” Teresa said, answering a question I hadn’t dared ask.
“What about her son, Landon?” I asked. “Any proof he’s Thatcher’s?”
“The original birth certificate lists Thatcher as the father,” Marco replied. “Jennifer changed it to no name a month before the end of the War. I also aged the photograph of Landon several different ways. His features still match the photo of our burglary suspect.”
I thumbed through the information on the tablet, my stomach twisting up tight at the thought of our
