Chapter 10
We found Elias after six weeks.
Not through surveillance.
Through a photograph.
A charity dinner in Vermont.
Man in the background.
Older.
Beard.
Different hair.
Same eyes.
Rafe asked:
“Do you want the address?”
I stared at the picture.
My brother.
Forty-six now.
Alive.
Apparently running a small woodworking company under the name Elias Bell.
No visible security.
No Blackwell life.
I thought about sending men.
Wrong.
Calling?
Maybe.
I wrote a letter.
One page.
No pressure.
Elias,
My name is Roman Blackwell.
I know who you are.
I know some of what happened.
I am sorry I did not know enough to ask for you.
I do not want your claim, your silence, or your forgiveness.
I only want you to know that if you ever want to speak to me, the choice is yours.
I did not sign “your brother.”
Too much.
Just Roman.
Rafe delivered it through a neutral courier.
Then nothing.
One week.
Two.
A month.
Good.
His pace.
Then one morning, an envelope arrived.
Inside:
You look like him when you’re angry.
No greeting.
No signature.
I laughed.
Then cried.
Second line:
I never wanted your chair.
Third:
I did want you to know I existed.
That hurt most.
Final line:
Coffee. Burlington. Tuesday. No guards at the table.
May you like
I went.
Of course.
