I fail and look down at my phone, and my heart knocks. A missed call from Agent Nelson with a follow up text: I have information on your sister.
The world implodes.
Nothing will be the same after this. It’s a moment of vibrant awareness.
We get stuck—a swirling vortex of the same thoughts, centered on the same routine. A well-worn track of comfort. We’re bored, but too busy to notice the boredom slowly killing us.
Until something inspiring interrupts our course, and we skip the rails onto a new track.
Inspiration is the food of life.
We’re so hungry for it, so ravenous…that once we realize we’re starving, and that first taste hits our tongue, we’re capable of genius.
A song, a movie, a novel—a single phrase or moment—we recognize it in an instant. We’re motionless in the dark, then we’re thrust into the light. Clear and focused.
Grayson was my fresh taste. He’s my interruption. I was starving for his promise of genius, and that genius shattered my world to bring me a sister I never knew existed before now.
“Cynthia,” I interrupt. “I’m sorry, but I just received a text. It’s an emergency. We need to reschedule.”
She’s jolted for a second before she graciously recovers. “Of course, Dr. Noble. I understand.”
I usher her from my office with another apology, then shut and lock the door. I let the solid brace of the door support me as I collect myself. Then I make the call.
Agent Nelson answers on the second ring. “You got my message.”
“Yes.”
Time seems to suspend as I wait to hear the news.
Then: “Mia Prescott.”
I close my eyes, blocking all other distractions so I can focus on his voice.
“Forensics places her remains between sixteen- and eighteen-years-old. The state of decomposition suggests she died somewhere within twenty years ago. But all this you knew.”
I did. I recovered enough of my memory to believe I had a sister. The fact that she’s real…that she—that we—have a name, makes it a certainty.
“I have a team concentrating on the victims’ families,” Nelson continues. “I’ve pulled together a couple of agents to focus primarily on Mia.”
I appreciate that he uses her name. “Thank you. Do you know anything yet?”
He clears his throat. “A quick search on the name pulled up a report. But—”
“Nelson, please,” I say. “You know that I’m able to handle it, and I have similar access to uncover this information…”
“I know,” he says. “I wanted to do this in person, but I respect your quest for answers. Okay. Mia Prescott was reported deceased with the discovery of Jacqueline and Phillip Prescott. Their bodies washed ashore the Ohio River just outside Cincinnati. It was assumed their two children, Mia and Lydia, had also drowned, but their bodies were never discovered.”
The name detonates on impact.
Lydia.
“Jacqueline’s sister persisted with the search for the children until she fell ill with ovarian cancer and died five years after her sister.”
I had an aunt.
“London,” he breathes my name. “Why don’t we meet soon. I can give you a copy of the reports. We shouldn’t have to do this over the phone.”
“All right,” I answer simply.