Sophia bent her head. “It’s from the Department of Justice.”

“Bart,” he clarified. “I asked him for a favor.” It could’ve gotten the other man fired, but the prosecutor had asked only the questions he needed to get the answer.

Sophia took a long breath, let it out. “You asked him to run your DNA against the central Justice criminal database.”

He wasn’t the least surprised that she’d guessed. “It was a logical step, given our socioeconomic circumstances, the history of the other men in the area at the time.” He took a deep breath. “And it’s a step I avoided for a hell of a long time.”

“That’s understandable,” Sophia said, shifting to a kneeling position beside him on the sofa, her fingers stroking through his hair. “You’re a cop. You’ve dedicated your life to upholding the law—discovering that your father was a criminal who broke those same laws will be a blow.” Her words were calm, practical. “But Max”—her tone changed, gentled, her eyes shining—“it will alter nothing about the man you are, the man you’ve made yourself.”

He slid one arm around her waist, his throat thick. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her forehead touching his in tender affection, her hands cupping his face. “You’re the one who taught me that life isn’t predestined. We are who we make ourselves.”

Her faith in him tore him wide open, reformed him a better man. “Open it for me.”

Sophia took the envelope, able to be strong for her cop, to give him what he needed. Sliding her finger under the flap, she slit it open to remove two pieces of paper. The first was closed around the second—which proved to be an automatically sealed printout with serrated edges which could be pulled apart to reveal what lay within. The first was a handwritten note.

“Max,” she read out, “as far as the computers are concerned, this scan was never done. I don’t know the results. Neither does the computer tech. We requested that the results be printed automatically sealed. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” It was signed with Reuben’s name. But below that was another line—“P.S. A man’s father doesn’t make the man. If it did, I’d be a self-serving SOB with three wives and an inability to be faithful to any of them.” Sophia put down the letter, her curiosity a wild thing. “I assume he means three consecutive wives?”

“Nope.” At her gasp, his lips curved. “Bart’s father founded his own religion.”

“And how many wives does Bart have?”

“He’s been married to Tasma since they were in law school. Got four brats they love like crazy.”

Sophia smiled. “So.”

“So.”

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

She broke the serrated edges but held the letter closed. “You should see it first.” Passing it over, she waited as he read it, then put it on the coffee table. Nothing happened for the next few seconds . . . until Max gave a shuddering sigh and dropped his head, thrusting his hands through his hair.

Worry tore through her . . . until he lifted his eyes. Relief shone a beacon of sunlight through his irises. “Max?”

“I always thought,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, “that there was something wrong with me that my mother couldn’t love me. She could love River, and I think she even loved some of the men she brought home. But not me, never me.”

Sophia’s eyes went to the envelope, her brain making connections out of the experiences of a lifetime spent in Justice. “Who was your father, Max?”

“His name isn’t important,” Max said, and she saw that to him, it truly wasn’t. “But what he did to her . . . He raped her, was convicted of it, died in a prison fight.” A short, brutal summary. Max shook his head. “The only thing I don’t understand is why she kept me.”

Sophia’s hand clenched on his thigh. Looking up, he saw eyes huge with concern, with empathy. “Ah, Sophie.” Pulling her into his lap, he nuzzled his face into the sweet curve of her neck as she wrapped her arms around him. “I’m not in shock.” Part of him, somewhere deep inside, had guessed the truth a long time ago. “Now that I know why she couldn’t love me, I can forgive her for it.”

“You’re a better person than I am,” Sophia said, her anger a steel flame. “You were a child.”

Max smiled, holding her tight, this woman who would fight for him. “But I’ve become a man.” Looking back, he could feel only pity and sorrow for the tormented, haunted woman who’d been his mother. “And I’m a man who is loved. Who loves to the depths of his soul.”

There was no way in hell he was ever letting anyone take Sophie away from him. She was his. The Justice Corps would have to just fucking get used to that. “Baby,” he said, turning his relentless will to how to ensure no one would ever dare come between him and his J, “we need a plan.”

Sophia’s eyes gleamed. “I have an idea.”

CHAPTER 45

Nikita entered the mental vault of the Council chambers knowing that what she was about to do would change the course of Psy history. Whether she’d come out of the change alive, time alone would tell.

Kaleb entered with her, Ming LeBon coming in just after.

“You’re well?” she asked.

The militarily inclined Councilor didn’t give much away. “Yes.”

They stopped speaking as Henry and Shoshanna Scott entered, followed by Tatiana Rika-Smythe and Anthony Kyriakus in short order.

“Nikita,” Shoshanna Scott said as soon as the psychic doors closed, “is this about the problems you’ve been having?”

“Yes,” Nikita said. “The specialists I hired were able to track the assassinations to a Pure Psy zealot.”

“I wouldn’t term the members of Pure Psy zealots.” Henry, joining in the conversation.

“Oh?” Nikita had played enough games. “The dictionary definition of zealotry is ‘fanatical partisanship.’ I’d say Pure Psy fits the definition.”

Ming LeBon was the one who spoke next, and his words were nothing Nikita had expected. “I, too, have become concerned about the direction of Pure Psy.”

“They seek only to protect our Silence,” Henry said. “There is nothing of concern in that . . . not unless you wish to protect those who are flawed.”

Nikita ignored the pointed reference to her daughter, focusing on Ming instead.

“However,” Ming continued, “that goal is now being interlocked with a noticeably racial agenda. Pure Psy has begun to see the other races as ‘unclean’ for want of a better word. It’s indisputable that Nikita was targeted because she has strong business ties with the changelings.”

Well, Kaleb’s voice whispered in Nikita’s mind, it seems this will make strange bedfellows out of us all.

He may have an ulterior motive, Nikita replied. Let us wait and see.

“Keeping our people apart from the other races,” Henry said, “is not the worst of choices. If we could achieve isolation, our Silence would soon be pristine.”

“If you believe that”—Anthony Kyriakus’s cool, considered voice—“then you’re a fool.”

Shoshanna’s riposte was quick. “It’s only the weaker members of our populace who are prone to breaks from conditioning—”

“So now you’ll add two cardinals and a gifted scientist to that list?” Anthony’s question was measured, no less lethal for its absolute calm. “It’s time we faced up to the facts. Silence is beginning to crumble at far more than just the edges, and if we don’t make a choice on how to handle it, we risk an uncontrollable breakdown.”

“Surely,” Tatiana Rika-Smythe said, entering the conversation for the first time, “it’s not that urgent. Yes, there have been incidents, but nothing to suggest a Net-wide emergency.”

Ming’s mind swirled an icy razor. “I made note of an incident at the Sunshine mining station several months ago.”

“The mass psychotic outbreak?” Nikita clarified, not having been immediately involved with the situation. According to the data she quickly accessed, the episode had resulted in over a hundred fatalities.

“Yes. It seemed an aberration at the time, but in the past three days, we’ve had another mass incident at a remote science station on the Russian steppes.”

“How many dead?” Kaleb, speaking aloud for the first time.

“Three hundred,” was the response. “And of the fifty survivors, at least thirty are candidates for total rehabilitation. Their minds are broken.”

There was a moment’s silence as they digested that. Nikita decided to speak first, draw a line in the sand. “We can’t just keep rehabilitating people. It’s akin to putting your finger in a dyke when the dam has burst.”

“Rehabilitation is key,” Henry argued. “It will remove the unstable part of the populace—”

“How many?” Nikita asked, holding her own Silence, holding the cold that had been conditioned into her as a child—a cold so deep and true that nothing would ever thaw it. “Stopping when all our people are dead seems rather pointless.”

“A melodramatic statement,” Tatiana responded. “It’s still a minority who are experiencing problems, and you said yourself that more and more people are getting themselves voluntarily reconditioned, so the situation will correct itself.”

“As to that,” Anthony said, “it seems you haven’t been reading your reports, Councilor.”

Shoshanna spoke into the silence. “Anthony?”

“There’s been a marked decline in the number of individuals choosing to have their conditioning checked over the past two months.”

“How is that possible?” Henry asked. “I’ve been kept updated on all the numbers.”