Page 136 of Dual
Donny,
Meet your son, Connor. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring him myself, but there are still things I need to finish to keep you both safe. I’ll be home soon. I promise.
All my love,Anna
Connor. She named him Connor.
Something inside me breaks. The carefully constructed walls, the armor of anger and hurt, the cold control I’ve wrapped around myself like a shroud—it all crumbles. My son makes a small sound, not quite a cry, more like he’s testing his voice in this big new world, and I gather him into my arms with hands that have done terrible things but now cradle this miracle like spun glass.
“Domhn?” Moira’s voice comes from somewhere far away.
I can’t speak. Can’t form words around the earthquake happening in my chest. I just turn slightly, enough for them to see.
“Holy shit,” Moira breathes.
“Language,” Bane murmurs automatically, but his eyes are wide with shock.
Kira must not have gone very far, because she’s back, baby Lily stowed in her seat in the living room. “Bring him inside,” she orders. “Now. It’s too cold out here for a newborn.”
Newborn. My son. The words feel foreign and familiar all at once.
I stand carefully, Connor’s weight negligible in my arms but somehow grounding me to the Earth. Inside. Yes. Get myson somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. Somewhere I can process this impossible gift without the eyes of the world on us.
“There’s another basket,” Isaak reports from the doorway, already cataloging potential threats and necessities with that tactical mind of his. “Supplies. Formula, diapers, clothes.” He lifts it easily. “Everything’s labeled and organized. Military precision.”
Of course. That’s her way. Even in this—especially in this—she’s thorough. Making sure our son has everything he needs.
Our son.
I sink into my leather chair, the one Anna used to curl up in. Connor stays in my arms. I can’t let go. Won’t let go. He’s so small, so fragile. How is something this small even possible? How do lungs that tiny work? That heart beating against my chest—how does it know what to do?
“How old, do you think?” I ask Kira, my voice rough.
She moves closer, assessing with experienced eyes. “May I?”
I don’t want to let him go, but Kira’s got experience with babies I don’t. I let her examine him while he stays in my arms, watching as she checks his umbilical cord site, his color, and his reflexes.
“Two weeks, maybe three,” she says. “He’s healthy. Good weight, good color. She took excellent care of him.”
Two or three weeks. What was she doing two or threeweeks ago? Where was she when our son was born? Did she have help? Was she alone? The questions burn in my throat.
“Can I see?” Moira edges closer, uncharacteristically tentative.
I angle Connor so she can see his face. Her breath catches.
“Oh fuck, he looks just like you.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Sorry. Shit. I mean—sorry.”
“His mother’s going to wash your mouth out with soap,” I whisper softly. The word ‘mother’ feels like a prayer and a promise.
Bane steps forward, his priest’s eyes taking in this miracle with appropriate reverence. “May I offer a blessing?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. He places a gentle hand on Connor’s head and speaks soft words that wash over us like warm water. Something about protection and grace and the light of divine love. I’m not a religious man, but in this moment, I’ll take all the help I can get.
Isaak returns from checking the perimeter, satisfied we’re not under immediate threat. “This was professional,” he reports. “The cameras went dark while the delivery was made. I don’t know how yet. Whoever brought him knew exactly how to avoid detection.”
Of course they did. She trained them or chose them for exactly that skill.
“What’s his name?” Kira asks, settling Lily on a blanket on the floor with sometoys.
