Sidonie’s guilt had been her chains, and he had forged them himself, on a staged night six years before, and then had only to maintain them with the occasional forged screenshot.

The genius of it was also its cruelty.

He had made her the warden of her own imprisonment, and for six years she had done the job for him, faithfully, out of love for the son she thought she was protecting.

Chapter 18 — Your Mother

Ellard looked at the wall of photographs he himself had taken, and a wave of nausea hit him so hard he had to grip the table.

“Your mother died believing you were ashes, Sidonie,” he said, and his voice broke on it.