The Congressional Committee arrives on a Tuesday that feels like judgment day. Black SUVs snake up Blackwood's drive, depositing senators and representatives who look at our towers like they're seeing democracy's dark shadow.
Senator Patricia Morse leads them—sixty, steel-haired, with eyes that have seen Washington's worst secrets. She takes my hand at the entrance, her grip firm but gentle.
"Mrs. Dickenson. I want you to know—this isn't a trial. It's a reckoning."
"Whose reckoning?" Vlad asks, protective as always.
"Everyone's," she replies simply.
They set up in the Great Hall, where we held our wedding, where Devon performed during the attempted kidnapping, where so much of our story unfolded. Camera crews position themselves carefully—this will be broadcast nationally, internationally. The world wants to know how America's elite secretly experimented on children for fifty years.
I testify first, Hope in my arms because I'm still nursing and refuse to be separated from her. The committee doesn't object—the image of a mother holding her infant while describing systematic memory violation is powerful.
"State your name for the record."
"Jasmine Morrison-Dickenson. Former victim of the Willowbrook memory modification program. Mother to three children, two of whom carry genetic markers from the Architects' breeding program."
I tell them everything. My father's murder. The memory modification. The years of false memories. The party where Devon was conceived. Theodore's manipulations. The Pembroke raid. All of it, unvarnished.
Senator Morse listens intently, occasionally asking clarifying questions. "Ms. Dickenson, in your opinion, how many victims are there?"
"Thousands, directly. Millions, if you count the ripple effects—the families torn apart, the children who never knew their real parents, the lives built on false foundations."
"And Blackwood Academy?"
I look around the Great Hall, at its arches that have witnessed so much. "Blackwood was built with blood money, that's true. But it's become something else—a place where victims become survivors. Where the modified children are learning to be themselves. It would be another tragedy to destroy it."
Julia testifies next, her testimony harder, angrier. She remembers everything—the experiments, the torture disguised as treatment, the systematic destruction of our family. She names names, dates, specific crimes. The committee members look increasingly horrified.
"They called it 'The Architecture of Tomorrow,'" Julia says, her voice cutting. "Building a better future through controlled evolution. But evolution can't be controlled. It finds a way. The children they modified are proof—they broke free the moment they had the chance."
When Devon testifies—the youngest witness in Congressional history—the room goes silent.
"I'm seven years old," he begins, his voice clear and steady. "I have an IQ that makes adults uncomfortable. I can sense the thoughts of forty-seven other children across the country. I can tell you that my baby sister is hungry before she cries. These aren't normal abilities."
"Are you saying the Architects succeeded?" Senator Morse asks carefully.
"No. They wanted to create controlled servants. Instead, they created us—uncontrollable, connected, and very angry about what was done to our parents." He pauses, his young face serious. "The question isn't whether you'll hold the Architects accountable. It's whether you'll help the victims heal, or just use us for political gain."
The room erupts. Some committee members are offended by his directness. Others are impressed. Senator Morse just nods thoughtfully.
Chase testifies about discovering his family's crimes, about falling in love with Sophia Ashford despite her father being an Architect. "We're the next generation," he says. "We can either perpetuate the sins or break the cycle. I choose to break it."
Leo provides financial documentation with typical thoroughness, showing the money trails, the bribes, the entire economic structure that supported the Architects. "This wasn't a conspiracy," he explains. "It was an industry. Hundreds of billions of dollars over fifty years."
Susan testifies last, and her testimony breaks hearts. Twenty years in institutions, drugged and gaslit, told her memories were delusions. "They stole my daughters and made me think I was crazy for remembering them. There's no justice sufficient for that theft."
"What would you want, Mrs. Morrison?" Senator Morse asks gently.
"The truth acknowledged. The victims compensated. And guarantees this never happens again." Susan looks directly at the cameras. "And for any parent out there whose child was taken, modified, or killed by the Architects—your memories are real. Your pain is valid. Your children existed."
The committee breaks for deliberation. In the hallway, survivors cluster together—the modified children, the escaped victims, the families torn apart. They're all watching the proceedings on screens Leo set up, finding solidarity in shared trauma.
"You did well," Adrian tells me, holding a sleeping Clara. "All of you."
"Will it matter?" I ask.
"The committee will recommend full prosecution of surviving Architects, compensation for victims, and oversight of any future genetic or memory research," he says. "It's not enough, but it's a start."
Hope fusses, and I shift her to feed. Around us, Blackwood hums with nervous energy—dozens of victims waiting to see if America will acknowledge what was done to them.
"Whatever happens," Vlad says, his arm around me, "we'll face it together."
"Together," Devon agrees, taking my free hand.
Even baby Clara reaches out, and Leo—surprising everyone—doesn't make a sarcastic comment. Instead, he says, "The Dickenson family versus the world. I almost feel sorry for the world."