"While I was—while we—" She cannot finish.
I take the photos from her hands, set them face-down on the dresser. "Walsh is in federal custody. His operation is dismantled. The people who took these photos are either dead or in custody."
She stares at the back of the photos like she can see through them. Then she is moving—off the bed, past me, out the door.
I do not follow immediately. Give her space.
Through the Jack and Jill bathroom, Chesca's door opens.
I wait. Count to sixty. Then I follow.
She is not in the doorway.
She is beside the bed, kneeling on the carpet, one hand pressed flat against Chesca's back. The rise and fall under her palm, the proof of life she needed to touch.
The nightlight casts pink shadows across her face. Her eyes are closed. Her lips are moving, prayer or promise, I can't tell.
Chesca doesn't wake. She shifts slightly, burrowing deeper into her pillow, and Angelina's hand moves with her. Staying connected.
I stop in the bathroom doorway. Do not enter. This is not my moment.
A full minute passes. Maybe two. Then Angelina leans down, presses her lips to Chesca's hair, and stands.
I stop behind her. Close enough to feel her warmth.
"They watched," I say quietly. "But they never touched her. Xander made sure of that."
"I know." Her voice is barely a whisper. "I know. I just..."
"You needed to feel her."
She nods.
We stand there together, watching Chesca breathe, until Angelina's shoulders finally drop. Some tension releasing that she has probably been carrying for weeks.
She turns. I step back, giving her space. She walks past me, through the bathroom, back toward our bedroom.
I pull Chesca's door to its usual crack and follow.
She is standing in the middle of the room when I return. Not moving. Not crying. Just standing there with her arms wrapped around herself, holding something in.
"Angelina."
"I held it together." Her voice is strange. Flat. "For three weeks, I held it together. I smiled at Chesca. I presided over hearings. I ate dinner and helped with homework and pretended everything was fine."
I wait. Let her get there.
"I did not fall apart. I could not. She needed me to be okay, so I was okay."
"And the whole time—" Her breath hitches. "The whole time, they were photographing my daughter. Tracking her schedule. Learning her patterns. And I did not know. I did not know."
She looks at me. A decision settles into her face.
"Both versions of you," she says.
I go still. "What?"
"The man who breaks people and the man who holds me." She crosses the room. Stops in front of me. "Both versions are mine."