I don't sleep. How can I, knowing my twin sister is flying to Switzerland to confront the man who destroyed our lives? Vlad doesn't sleep either. We lie in our marriage bed, not touching, the weight of revelation crushing us both.
"Tell me about Clara," I say into the darkness.
"Why?"
"Because if Theodore killed her, she's part of this pattern. Another woman he destroyed to protect family secrets."
Vlad sighs. "Clara was... complicated. Beautiful, brilliant, ambitious. She came from nothing, worked her way into our social circle through charm and determination. I thought I loved her."
"Thought?"
"Looking back, I loved the idea of her. Someone who chose me despite the family baggage, who saw past the Dickenson name." He laughs bitterly. "Turns out she was investigating us. Adrian's probably right—she found something about Willowbrook, about what happened to you."
"And Theodore had her killed."
"Made it look like an accident. Brake failure on a rainy night." His voice is hollow. "I mourned her for three years. Became the cold bastard you met at that party. And all along, my own father had murdered her."
"You didn't know—"
"I should have suspected. The timing, the way Theodore barely seemed to grieve. He said she wasn't suitable anyway, that her death saved me from a mistake." His hands clench. "God, how many people has he killed?"
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number, but I recognize Julia's terse style: "Meeting moved up. He's suspicious. 6 AM your time. Be ready."
"That's in three hours," Vlad says, reading over my shoulder.
We dress in silence, wake Devon despite the early hour. He doesn't complain, just dresses with the efficiency of someone used to crisis. Leo's trained him well.
The command center Leo's set up in his quarters looks like something from a spy movie—multiple screens, encrypted connections, Adrian and Eduardo already present. Richard's there too, which surprises me.
"Medical support," he explains. "In case something goes wrong."
"Nothing will go wrong," Leo says, but his usual confidence seems forced.
On screen, Julia appears. She's in a hotel room, adjusting a hidden camera in her brooch. "Can you see?"
"Crystal clear," Eduardo confirms.
"He'll be here in ten minutes. Remember, no interference unless I signal. I need his full confession."
"This is insane," I mutter. "She's alone with a murderer—"
"She's a survivor," Adrian says. "She's been preparing for this for twenty years."
The waiting is agony. Devon sits in my lap, playing with a Rubik's cube Leo gave him, solving it over and over—a nervous habit he's developed. Vlad paces. Leo types furiously on his laptop, running facial recognition on everyone entering the hotel.
Then: "He's here."
Theodore Dickenson fills the doorway of Julia's hotel room on screen. He looks older than in photos, but still commanding, still dangerous. He doesn't enter immediately, scanning the room with practiced paranoia.
"Ms. Morrison," he greets Julia, using her alias. "You have information about my grandson's DNA tests?"
"I have more than that," Julia says, her voice steady. "Please, sit."
He enters cautiously, sits across from her. "You said there were irregularities."
"There were. But not the kind you think." She pulls out a folder. "The tests were accurate. Devon is your grandson. But someone's been lying to you about other things."
"Such as?"
"Such as Jasmine Johnson's identity. Her real name isn't Johnson. It's Morrison. Like mine."
Theodore goes still. "Impossible. I had her thoroughly investigated—"
"By Jessica Hartley? Your paid spy who's been feeding you false information for years?" Julia laughs. "Did you really think a party girl would be your best intelligence source?"
"Who are you?"
"Someone who knows the truth about what you did to the Morrison twins twenty years ago."
The temperature in Leo's command center drops. On screen, Theodore's face cycles through emotions—surprise, calculation, fear.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"No? Then you won't mind if I publish these?" Julia spreads photographs across the table—Willowbrook, medical records, the original police report. "The murder of James Morrison. The memory modification of his daughters. The cover-up that followed."
"Those are forgeries—"
"Are they? Should we call Dr. Brennan? He's still alive, you know. Living in terror that someone will discover what he did to those little girls, but alive. He's agreed to testify in exchange for immunity."
Theodore's mask finally cracks. "What do you want? Money? I can make you incredibly wealthy—"
"I want you to confess. On camera. Everything."
"You're insane."
"No, I'm Julia Morrison." She pulls off the dark wig she's wearing, revealing hair exactly like mine. "The twin who remembered. The one you couldn't break."
Theodore lunges across the table, but Julia's ready. She pulls out a gun—where did she get a gun?—and points it steadily at his chest.
"Sit. Down."
He sits, and for the first time, Theodore Dickenson looks afraid.
"You killed our father," Julia says calmly. "Your father pulled the trigger, but you orchestrated everything after. The cover-up, the memory modification, twenty years of lies."
"You can't prove—"
"I can. And I will. Unless you confess. Now. To everything."
"And if I do?"
"Then you get a choice. Prison here, or disappearance. New identity, new life, but you never contact your family again. Never come near Devon or Jasmine."
"That's not—"
"Those are your options. Confess and choose, or I release everything to the media in an hour."
On our screens, we watch Theodore calculate, scheme, look for angles. Finding none.
"My son—"
"Vlad already knows. He's watching right now. Wave to your son, Theodore."
Theodore looks directly at the hidden camera, and his eyes are pure hatred. "David."
"Father," Vlad says, though Theodore can't hear him.
"Start talking," Julia commands.
And he does. For forty minutes, Theodore Dickenson confesses to everything. The cover-up of Henry's murder. The imprisonment and experimentation on two six-year-old girls. The bribes, the threats, the subsequent murders to keep it quiet. Clara's death, confirmed with casual indifference. Others too—a journalist who asked too many questions, a Willowbrook nurse who grew a conscience.
"Thirteen people," he says finally. "Thirteen people who threatened our family's security. I regret none of it."
"Not even the children you destroyed?"
"Children grow up. Better to shape them young than fight them later." He looks at the camera again. "Devon would have been perfect. Brilliant boy, but contaminated by his mother's weakness. I could have fixed that."
"Like you fixed me?" Julia asks.
"You were unfixable. Too much of your father's stubbornness." He shrugs. "Your sister was more malleable. The modifications took perfectly. She lived a normal life, never knowing what she'd lost."
"What she'd lost?" Julia's voice rises for the first time. "She lost her father, her sister, her real memories, her entire identity!"
"She gained peace. Freedom from trauma. A chance at happiness."
"Built on lies!"
"All happiness is built on lies. The only difference is who tells them."
In our room, I'm sobbing. Devon holds me tight, this seven-year-old boy trying to comfort his destroyed mother.
"Don't cry, Mom," he whispers. "He's wrong. Our happiness is real. Even if the memories aren't all true, the feelings are."
On screen, Julia stands. "Theodore Dickenson, you're under arrest for murder, conspiracy, and crimes against humanity."
Swiss police enter the hotel room—Adrian arranged it all. Theodore doesn't resist, just stares at the camera one last time.
"Tell my son he's weak. Tell him his grandfather would be ashamed. Tell him—"
The feed cuts off.
Silence fills Leo's command center. Then Devon says, in his too-wise voice: "Grandfather Theodore is wrong. Dad's not weak. He's strong enough to be kind even when the world is cruel. That's harder than being a monster."
Vlad pulls Devon into a fierce hug, crying openly now.
"It's over," Adrian says quietly. "Julia did it."
But it doesn't feel over. It feels like a beginning—of what, I don't know.