The fire station on Michigan Avenue squats silent under the January moon.We reach it before the DeVries family does. Marcus locks down the perimeter. Gabriel huddles in the car, his face drained, his hands shuddering. Julian guides me through the fractured doors, past the brass pole gleaming in the dark, into the back room where a loose brick waits behind decades of dust and decay.The lockbox is small and black and rusted at the hinges. Julian drops to his knees before it, the brass key crushed in his fist. His hands quiver as he works the key into the lock."Whatever occupies this box," he says, "whatever my mother abandoned, I need you to know that locating you was the finest event of my existence. No letter, no secret, no truth can alter that.""Crack it open."He rotates the key. The lock surrenders. The lid groans upward.Inside, a photograph. A young woman with dark hair and January gray eyes, gripping a baby. Not Julian. A girl. Older. Perhaps eighteen months. On the back, in
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