The following morning, guided by information Gideon obtained through discreet inquiries, I drove alone to a modest apartment complex on the outskirts of town, where the paint peeled slightly from the stair railings and potted plants lined narrow balconies as small attempts at beauty.
Maren answered the door holding one of the twins against her hip, while the other slept in a portable crib behind her, and although surprise flickered across her face, she did not appear frightened.
For a moment we simply stood there, the distance between us heavier than the space itself.
“Ryan,” she said softly.
Her voice carried the same warmth I remembered, though tempered by exhaustion.
“I didn’t know how to reach you,” I began, aware that explanations sounded hollow even as they formed. “I learned the truth about what happened.”
She studied my expression carefully.
“It took you a long time.”
There was no accusation in her tone, only quiet acknowledgment.
I stepped inside at her invitation, noticing how tidy the small apartment was despite its simplicity, how carefully she had arranged the children’s blankets and bottles.
“Why didn’t you tell me about them?” I asked gently, glancing toward the crib.
She shifted the baby slightly against her shoulder.
“I tried that night,” she replied. “You wouldn’t let me finish.”
Her words settled between us with a finality that required no embellishment.
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