“Then everything changed. A new government head took over. They wanted more. That’s when they brought in Deborah Monroe. Young. Brilliant. A rising star. On paper, she was the perfect replacement—fresh eyes, new energy. But Monroe didn’t want to continue Gideon’s work. Not really. She didn’t care about healing depression or restoring anyone’s old self.
“She wanted something else entirely. Monroe believed the patients who survived treatment could be made into something more. Not people re-imprinted with healthier versions of themselves—people recoded, redesigned. Controlled. Turned into weapons. That’s when the program changed. And it never came back.”
Brad’s voice deepened. “Dr. Fields?”
“No one working the program could have ties to the outside world.”
“So, you kept him hidden?” Brad asked coldly.
“No, it wasn’t that cruel. We gave him life and love. Gideon and I homeschooled him. Elias has a genius IQ. Warden Shepler was compensated, and I brought Elias to work. He benefitted from some of the more social and intelligent prisoners.”
Ethan gripped the back of his neck.
Brad stepped in closer, inches from her face. His voice dropped, cold and dominant. “Where is he now?”
Fields’ hands shook. “The day Gideon took his turn for the worse, Elias visited him. He said, ‘It’s not over,’ and kissed his father goodbye. That was the last thing he said to his father. Then Charlotte showed up. Gideon’s precious Charlotte. Elias hid, and when she was gone and the body was taken away, I drove him home.”
“HOME!” Brad roared. He was living with her. “Just admit you’re his mother!”
Fields began to cry. “Sybil delivered him, here in the clinic. He was beautiful. It was more beautiful than the night we conceived him. Gideon and I were together.”
Ethan slammed his hand on the desk. “And, Warden, you cooperated with all of this and didn’t report it?”
Shepler shook her head. “Because it wasn’t report-necessary. It was personal. Ward was nothing more than an inmate. And Elias—Elias was a child saying goodbye to his father.”
Brad turned away, jaw tight, chest rising and falling. He looked at Ethan.
Ethan nodded once. “Get a copy of that photo. And every true time log, vehicle access record, visitor credential. We pull this thread until the fabric rips away.”
Brad turned back to Shepler and Fields, voice sharp, final. “You better hope Alex Marcel is still alive. Because if he’s not…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. The silence in the room said enough.
This was their plan. Leave the women in place. Hopefully they would lead them to Elias.
The overhead lightflickered once before settling into a dull, warm hue. It was past midnight, and the Blackwell Institute’s auxiliary room was littered with notes, printed stills from the warehouse, and voice logs: every breadcrumb Gideon Ward had ever dropped about his son. Charlotte sat at the edge of the long table, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, one hand wrapped around a half-drank cup of tea that had long since gone cold.
Graham sat opposite her, flipping through the old surveillance logs with silent precision. He hadn’t said much in hours, letting her work, letting her obsess.
And now she stopped. With a cassette tape in her hand, one line from Ward echoed through her head: “A mother can reach him, you understand. There is nothing like a mother’s love. It’s built on trust. You know the devastation of silence like I do.”
Charlotte sat up slowly. Her gaze drifted to the photo of Elias, the one Brad sent, the only clear one they had. He was older now, face changed, but those eyes. They were Gideon’s eyes. And there was something else in them. Pain. Recognition. Loneliness. Need.
She looked at Graham. A mother’s love. “He was told to trust me,” she said quietly.
Graham frowned. “What?”
“Ward… he prepared him. Told him I was someone he could trust. Someone who would understand.”
Graham sat forward, a dark realization dawning behind his eyes. “You think he’s going to come to you.”
Charlotte nodded slowly.
“Charlotte…”
“I need to go home,” she said, standing abruptly. “I need to rest.”
Graham stood too. “You don’t sleep when you’re scared. You retreat. That’s not rest.”
