Chapter Twenty-Six #2
I finally unlocked the doors and slid into the driver’s seat, placing the tablet on my lap. Ashen got in beside me, the car suddenly feeling very small.
“I can’t look at the original,” I explained, turning the heavy device over in my hands. “The drive itself is evidence. The moment I plug it into a normal computer, timestamps get altered, logs are written. The data is compromised.”
I powered it on. The screen that booted up wasn’t a normal desktop, but a simple, stark interface with only a few icons.
I pulled the flash drive, still in its bag, from my purse.
“This is a forensic field tablet. It’s completely air-gapped—no Wi-Fi, no cell signal.
It’s a closed system.” I pointed to a specific, red-outlined USB port on the side.
“And this is a write-blocked port. It physically prevents the tablet from altering the drive in any way. I can see what’s on it, but I can’t change a single bit of data. ”
I took the drive from its bag and plugged it into the port. On the screen, I launched an imaging program. A progress bar appeared, a thin blue line slowly crawling across the screen.
“It’s creating a forensic image,” I continued, as much for myself as for him. “A bit-for-bit clone of the drive. Now we can analyze the copy without ever compromising the original.”
The silence in the car was absolute as we watched the bar creep toward completion. It felt like defusing a bomb, one agonizing second at a time. A few minutes later, a small notification declared the process complete.
I ejected the original flash drive, sealed it back in its evidence bag, and placed it securely in the glove box. The evidence was pristine. Untouched.
Then, turning back to the tablet, I opened the newly created image file. A simple file directory appeared on the screen. My heart hammered against my ribs. There were two folders.
One was labeled “Blackmail.” I nearly groaned. One thing Ashen wasn’t was subtle. Still, I clicked on it and quickly read his summary of the likely connection between Simmons’s father being a Nazi officer and the role the Gravestones played in helping Nazi officers relocate after the war.
Another piece of the puzzle clicked in place.
The next folder was labeled “Journals.”
I tapped it, and a list of scanned documents filled the screen. My finger hovered for a second before I selected the first one.
The first page of a journal appeared on the screen.
The script was archaic, the ink faded, but the words were sharp and chillingly clear.
I read the first entry, then the second.
The detached, monstrous prose detailed a clinical fascination with human suffering, a cold accounting of cruelty.
Right there, in the dim, quiet light of my car, the full, unadulterated horror of Charles Simmons’s work began to unfold before my eyes.
Now, I was trained to face the most grotesque murder scenes with composure and a clear head, but there was no way to read about how so many children had been brought into the world to provide data points for one obsessed psychopath.
I didn’t realize how shallow my breathing had become until Ashen asked, “Are you okay?”
I kept reading because I had to. So much of it was the same. Names. Placements. Evaluations. Cases closed due to one reason or another. I skimmed the entries, then with wild eyes asked Ashen, “Are you in here?”
Sadness burned in his eyes. “No. I’m not mentioned in the journals, which either means he didn’t record every twin’s story .
. . or I’m not a twin and somehow I’m different.
I’ve put some thought into this. Simmons didn’t have to blackmail any other families to take a child.
Why would he put me with a family who clearly didn’t want me?
I reread the journals looking for a clue and there’s one constant through all of what he did.
Control. He didn’t think what he had on the Gravestones would be enough to control them forever, so he forced them to take me in so they’d be implicated in his sins.
I wasn’t part of the experiment; I was the dynamite he could threaten to detonate. ”
Everything in me wanted to tell him he was wrong, but his theory made sense and fit everything I’d uncovered. “I will take the Gravestones down if it’s the last thing I do.”
He watched my face. “Why haven’t you moved on them?” he asked quietly. “If you knew about the money and ties to the murdered women, why didn’t you push for it to be formally investigated?”
I turned off the tablet. “I don’t know if I can trust everyone at the Bureau and this .
. . this is big,” I admitted, my voice raw.
“Then there’s you and the twins. You’ve all been through so much.
If this story gets out, your lives will forever change.
It’s not just the press that would descend, it’s also all the unknown players. I don’t want to endanger any of you.”
He stared at me, his expression unreadable. “So you’re protecting us? Protecting me?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
The air shifted. The caution in his eyes was replaced by a fierce, urgent intensity. He leaned toward me. “Then you need to know you’re already in danger.”
I started to protest, to say I could handle myself, but he cut me off.
“Still, after everything you’ve learned about the Gravestones, you still think that? These people paid to have surrogate mothers killed, Sara. And you’re a problem.” His voice dropped, the words landing like stones. “I will not sit back and let them do to you what they did to Max.”
His proclamation stole the air from my lungs.
“Say what you want to believe about being an agent and knowing how to protect yourself. I don’t care. You’re coming with me. I can keep you safe.”
I was speechless. This was a side of him I’d never seen.
The quiet, gentle man from the bookstore, the broken soul from my apartment—they were gone.
In their place was a man forged in fire, a man whose quietness was now a sign of immense, unshakable strength.
The authority in his voice, the raw protectiveness in his eyes—it was beautiful, and it was so damn sexy I nearly cried.
“How?” I whispered.
“I’m not alone anymore,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “But even if I were, I finally understand why they kept me sedated so long. Not only am I the dynamite, but I have the power to decide when and how to light that fuse.”
“I can’t . . .” I stammered, “I can’t just walk away from the Bureau, from the cases I’m working on . . .” But Max had. For me and my mother, he had tossed it all away without a second thought. “Do you have a plan?”
“Not yet, but I’m not going to let the Gravestones take one more thing from me,” he said, his voice low and fierce.
Never had a man looked at me like I was his to claim and his to die for. It had me both scared and excited at the same time. “I need time to think . . .”
His hand took mine again and warmth spread through me. “You belong with me, Sara.”
“It isn’t that easy.”
“It can be.” His eyes bored into mine, holding me captive. “If you want me to ever trust you again—trust me. I’ll keep you safe.”