Wolf Haven, Oklahoma… Now

“Put the guns down! Put the guns down now!” Jared yells at one of the richest families in America. It’s been years since Jared transitioned from my Secret Service guard to a Rustanov employee, but his reflexes are still set to shield and defend. He moves in front of me, pushing me back as he aims his Sig Sauer between two bars in the gate.

The three people on the other side drop their shotguns, but no one raises their hands. And only one person speaks—the woman who I recognize as Tu Ataneq, the half-Inuit, half-black “Alaska oil princess” responsible for the Wulfkonig family’s current success.

However, instead of fawning over me and telling me how much she loves my mother like most black women her age do, she glares at me hard and silent.

She may no longer be holding a gun, but I feel like an intruder as she calls out, “This is a privileged land! Protected under the North American Lupus Pact. You are not allowed beyond these gates without an executive order from a sitting president.”

“Get in the car, Shimmer,” Jared says without taking his eyes off the three individuals.

Once again, I’m forced to be difficult. I can guess what my family’s PR team will have to say about this when they get Jared’s daily report.

I push past my guard to get as close as I can to the widest gap in the gate. I want the people on the other side to see my empty hands. Then hoping no one decides to pick up a gun and shoot, I speak sign, “Hello, my name is—”

“We know who you are. Why are you here?” Qim Wulfkonig signs, interrupting me. It’s clear from his greeting that he’s not the father of my baby, or even an admirer. Qim glares at me hard as if waiting for me to make the next move.

“Shimmer…” Jared intones behind me. My old White House codename sounds like a warning of bad things to come.

But I try again, this time signing, “I came to speak about J-A-N-D-R-O.” Just signing, no speaking. That way unless Jared records me on his bioware—which is strictly forbidden—he’ll have no way to report what I say back to my father.

“You cannot take him from us. He’s happy here. Thriving,” Qim signs.

“Growing stronger!” Grady adds like a proud grandfather.

“He likes living with us. Likes having a family he can trust,” Tu signs, her expression softening. “And we like—we LOVE having him with us. He makes our family complete.”

But Qim’s expression is more determined than soft as he finishes with, “You cannot take him away. We tell him he has a forever home with us. We make promise to him. Breaking promise would traumatize him. We will NOT break promise.”

I stare at them, and they stare right back at me, looking as if they’ll pick up the shotguns if that’s what it takes to convince me to back down.

“Lower your weapons,” I say out loud to Jared and Santiago.

No response, which is Bodyguard-speak for “request denied” when you don’t want to argue with a client in a tense situation like this.

But I insist. “Lower your weapons. That’s an order.”

There’s another long measure of hesitation, then the two guards lower their guns to their sides, technically following orders but staying at the ready.

I accept their half-concession, and the three people across from me take a few more steps forward. They’re close enough to scent, and I’m not as surprised as I should be to discover they smell a lot like the cabin minus all the wood…

Kindred. The word floats into my head again, making me wonder if I’m wrong about all this. If my brain injury didn’t just take away six months of my memory, but also my sanity.

But acting on faith, I sign, “You remember me, but I don’t remember you. I CANNOT remember you.”

I explain my situation, telling them how I woke up on a river bank about eight miles from their campground with no memory of my past. “Can you tell me what happened? Do you know how I ended up on the riverbank?”

The three family members look at each other, and I get the feeling they’re worried whatever they say could put Jandro’s adoption at risk.

“Have you found a therapist for Jandro with grief counseling experience?” I ask, switching to a topic that addresses what is probably most on their mind.

“YES,” Qim assures me, knocking his hand emphatically. “He meets her once a week. He also enrolled in our town school for the deaf. And we look now for a LSM tutor for whole family.”

I nod, though my response is an understatement for how impressed I am. They’ve gone above and beyond what I would have recommended as the bare minimum for a foster-to-adopt situation, and the Mexican Sign Language tutor is a great touch. They’re definitely not treating Jandro like a walking, signing purse. But the fact that my assessment is still incomplete remains an issue.

“Did something happen with Jandro? Has he been hurt or is there any other reason I maybe had to give you a bad assessment?” I ask.

Qim shakes his head emphatically. “Jandro’s adoption has nothing to do with what happened to you. I’m sorry it happened. But we’re not at fault.”

I trust my gut when it comes to people—at least I did before Ethan, apparently. But since I have no emotional memory of what went down between Ethan and I, I am still inclined to listen to my instincts. And that’s why even though I can see how defensive Qim is, I listen to my gut when it says to me he’s telling the truth.

“Then I don’t care what you tell me…no matter how bad it is. I promise I won’t give the information to the DWCS. Please tell me what happened that day. Please tell me the truth.”

More hesitation and exchanged glances greet my promise. I sign, “I’m pregnant,” in the hopes this might push them to spill the beans they seem so reluctant to let go of.

My guards don’t react. That’s not surprising. After all, they don’t know ASL.

But the Wulfkonigs' also don’t react to this news. And that takes me by surprise. Which can only mean…

“You already knew,” I say, my heart icing over. “How?”