He had never checked his phone logs. He had never demanded to see her face. He had trusted the paperwork because paperwork hurt less than his own guilt.

“I woke up in a hospital bed not knowing who I was,” Valerie went on, her voice trembling before it regained its icy composure. “My face was bruised, my head was burning, and every time I tried to remember my own name it felt like my brain was tearing apart.

A nurse kept whispering that I needed to stay quiet if I wanted to stay alive. Then a social worker showed up with temporary state documents. They told me my name was Maya Ross.

That I had no family. That someone would hurt me if I asked too many questions.”

“Who ordered that?”

Valerie finally turned her head. Her eyes were no longer the rebellious teenager’s he remembered. They were the eyes of someone who had survived the systematic erasure of her own existence.