She told Kane about the photograph at breakfast.
She laid her phone on the kitchen island face-up and watched him look at it — the hotel bathroom, the test in the bin, the two pink lines that were nobody's business but hers and now apparently someone else's. His jaw set in the way she was beginning to recognize: a line being crossed, a decision being made, very calmly.
"Alexander knows?" he asked.
"First thing this morning. He's running the trace. Relay routing — it'll take a day or two."
"And the pregnancy. Who else knows?"
"The brothers. You now, apparently." She took her phone back. "And whoever sent this."
He looked up at her then. Something careful and deliberate. "Are you all right?"
Not clinical. Not strategic. Just straight.
"I will be," she said. Because it was truer than
