I did not sleep. I sat on my balcony overlooking Los Angeles and tried to process the impossible. Catherine Morgan, my mother who died when I was five years old, was alive. Either she had faked her death, or something else was happening that was beyond my current understanding of how the system worked.
By dawn, I had made a decision. I would not run. I would not hide. If my mother was alive, I needed to see her and hear her story from her own mouth.
The meeting location came through the encrypted app at exactly eight in the morning: a private restaurant in Malibu that specialized in serving only one party at a time. When I arrived, the restaurant was empty except for one table set for two. And sitting at that table, looking exactly like the old photos my father had shown me except older
