I smiled. “Sounds like Nicholas.”
Lex looked up at me and then back down at her phone, swiping through photos until she found one of Mom, who was like a perfect blend of Patrick and herself. Tall and solid like Patrick. Blonde and beautiful—even if that beauty was fading around the edges—like Lex. In the picture, Mom was standing beside Mia as she blew out candles on a birthday cake. She was smiling, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes, which were focused somewhere in the distance.
“How is she?” I asked.
“She’s . . .” Patrick cleared his throat. “She’ll be happy to see you.”
They showed me dozens more pictures. My dad, our house, our old golden retriever Honey, my best friend Andrew, who Lex told me had moved to Arizona with his family a few years ago. Neighbors and cousins and playmates whose names I couldn’t tell them. I feigned some recognition for their benefit, but I doubt it was convincing. It was like looking at pictures of another person’s life.
But it was a life I wanted.
“Don’t worry,” Lex said. “We’ll help you remember.”
The door to the interview room opened, and Warner stuck his head in. “How are we doing in here?”
Patrick stood. “When can we take our brother home?”
“Well, now, that’s a bit of a tricky question,” Warner said. “He can’t just stroll over the border. He has no passport or identification.”
Lex dug into her purse and came out with a folder that she handed to the constable. “His birth certificate and social security card.”
“That takes care of the identification part,” Patrick said.
Warner looked at the documents inside the folder, faint frown lines appearing between his eyebrows. “Well. I’m sure this will help, but . . .”
“What?” Patrick asked.
Warner’s eyes flicked over to me and back again. “Maybe we should speak out in the hallway, Mr. McConnell?”
Patrick followed Warner outside, while Lex stayed with me. Even with the door closed, we could hear their muffled voices, but not well enough to make out any of their words. I didn’t have to hear to know, though. Daniel Tate’s birth certificate only proved that he had been born, not that I was him.
“Don’t worry,” Lex told me. “Patrick will get this all straightened out.”
She sounded sure. How could she sound so sure?
“Yeah?” I said.
“He’s very persuasive. And very stubborn.” Her eyes shifted to the door. “He always gets what he wants.”
The voices in the hall were getting louder. I could make out words now.
“Absolutely not!” Patrick said.
Warner was calmer and therefore harder to hear. “. . . simple test . . . verify . . .”
My nails dug into the flesh of my palms.
“. . . not doing a DNA test! That boy has been terribly abused, and we won’t subject him . . . don’t want him to think we have any doubts . . .”
I looked at Lex. Her eyes dropped from mine, but she wrapped an arm around my shoulders, her cashmere sweater warm and soft where it rested against the bare skin of my neck. I could feel her trembling. The door suddenly opened, and Patrick came back into the interview room.
“This is my brother, Constable,” he was saying. “Do you think there’s any chance my sister and I wouldn’t be able to tell?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Warner said, “but if you’d just let us confirm—”
“We’re not waiting weeks for a test to come back and tell us what we already know,” Patrick said. “My brother is coming home with us as soon as possible.”
“I’m not an expert, but I’m sure the authorities will require some kind of proof besides your word before they allow him across the border,” Warner said.
“We’ll see about that. I’ve already called the embassy, and they’re sending someone over. In the meantime, you’re not to touch him.” Patrick’s voice was steely. “He’s a minor, and I have power of attorney from our mother, making me his legal guardian, and I forbid it. We’ll see what the embassy has to say.”
? ? ?
The official from the embassy arrived with surprising—or maybe not so surprising—swiftness. She introduced herself as Sheila Brindell. Although her suit couldn’t have cost half of what Patrick’s did, she had the aura and graying hair of someone with authority. She wore no wedding ring but did have a small heart pendant around her neck. Only children buy women jewelry with hearts on them, so my guess was she was a career bureaucrat who’d been too consumed with climbing the professional ladder to bother dating and now smiled wistfully at babies in strollers and doted on her nieces and nephews to make up for it. Hard on the outside with a gushy, sentimental center. She sat down opposite Patrick, Lex, and me while Warner observed from a chair in the corner.
“I’m sure you’ll understand this is a highly unusual situation, Mr. McConnell,” she said, clicking the top of her pen subconsciously.
“I think you’ll find that no one understands that better than we do,” Patrick said. “We appreciate you accommodating us on such short notice.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “The consul asked me to handle this personally and to ensure that everything was settled as quickly as possible.”
Patrick just smiled coolly. There was something happening here that I didn’t understand, some unspoken transaction taking place between this woman and my brother.
“However, before we can issue Daniel an expedited passport, I need to ask him some questions,” Ms. Brindell continued. “I need assurance that he is who you claim.”
“Of course,” Patrick said.
“In the absence of a DNA test . . .”
Lex tensed beside me.
“. . . this interview will have to serve,” she said. “Daniel, can you tell me your middle name?”
“Wait,” Patrick said. “My brother has severe memory loss from the trauma—”
“It’s okay,” I said. I knew the answer. “My middle name is Arthur.”
She nodded. “And your date of birth?”
“November sixteenth, 2000.”
“Can you tell me the names of your family?” she asked. “Just immediate family will do.”
My throat was dry, so with the very tips of my fingers I grabbed the bottle of water a deputy had brought me earlier, taking a long swig before I answered. “My parents are Jessica and Robert Tate. Patrick and Alexis McConnell are my half brother and sister. My older brother is Nicholas, and my little sister is Mia.” I could see that Ms. Brindell was trying to keep her face neutral, so I added, “They’re the best family in world.”
She looked down briefly at the table top and then exchanged another meaningful glance with Patrick. Then she opened her briefcase and pulled a stack of paper from it. She handed the stack to me, and I found it was photographs printed on regular office paper.