Chapter 6: Dinner with Ghosts

Elena walked out of the bank. She didn't faint. She didn't scream. She put one foot in front of the other, her accountant’s brain automatically compartmentalizing the trauma into a separate, quarantined ledger. *Trafficking. Fraud. Biological Link.*

She drove home. The house was empty. Mark was at the site; Mia was at the library studying for finals.

Elena sat in the kitchen. The silence was deafening. She needed to look at them. Not the numbers this time. The people.

She prepared dinner. Roast chicken. Asparagus. The comfort food of a happy home. She set the table with the good linens. She poured wine for Mark and sparkling cider for Mia.

When they came in, the house smelled perfect. Mark kissed her cheek, lingering a second too long, testing the temperature. "Smells great, El. You okay? You seemed tense this morning."

"Just deadlines," Elena said. She watched him take his seat at the head of the table. He looked handsome in the candlelight, the architect of their lives.

Mia bounced in, dropping her heavy backpack. "I think I aced the anatomy prep," she said, piling potatoes onto her plate. "The lymphatic system is actually kind of cool."

Elena smiled. It felt like her face was made of plaster. "That's wonderful, honey."

She watched Mia eat. She looked for Mark in her face. The jawline? Maybe. The eyes? Mia's eyes were dark, almost black. Mark's were hazel. Elena's were blue.

"So," Mark said, cutting his chicken. "Did you get the application submitted?"

"Sarah had some questions," Elena said. She took a sip of wine. "About the income sources. Routine stuff."

Mark's knife scraped against the porcelain. "Sarah worries too much. That's why she's still a loan officer and not a branch manager."

Mia laughed. "Dad, be nice."

"I'm just saying," Mark winked at his daughter. "Some people see risks. Architects see possibilities."

Elena looked at Mia. At twenty-three, she was beautiful in a striking, unfamiliar way. She didn't have Mark's softness. She had a sharp, predatory grace that Elena had always attributed to the mysterious, deceased mother.

"Mia," Elena said softly. "Do you have your locket?"

Mia's hand went to her neck automatically. "Yeah. Why?"

"I wanted to ask you about the photo inside. I was thinking... maybe we could get it restored? For graduation? It's so faded."

Mia unclasped the silver oval and handed it to Elena. It was warm from her skin.

Elena opened it. The photo was tiny, the size of a thumbnail. A woman’s face, smiling, looking down.

"It's the only one I have," Mia said, her voice turning reverent. "Dad said all the others were lost in the move before I was born."

Elena looked at the photo. She had seen it a thousand times. But she had never *looked* at it. Not with Sarah's words ringing in her ears.

*Biological link.*

The woman in the photo had dark hair. High cheekbones. A sharp, elegant nose.

Elena looked up at Mark. He was watching her, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth. His eyes were tight.

"It's a beautiful picture," Elena said.

"She was beautiful," Mark said quietly. "Mia looks just like her."

Elena looked back at the photo. Then at Mia. Then at the empty chair where Julianne usually sat when she visited.

Julianne had high cheekbones. Julianne had dark, almost black eyes.

"It's funny," Mia said, taking the locket back and snapping it shut. "I was looking at old albums at Gran's last week. Aunt Julianne has the same nose as Mom did."

Mark dropped his fork. It clattered loudly against the plate.

"Genes are strong in our family," he said, his voice strained. "My sister and my wife... they shared a certain look. It's why I was drawn to her."

"That's weird, Dad," Mia wrinkled her nose. "You married someone who looked like your sister?"

"I mean they were both elegant," Mark snapped. "Eat your potatoes."

Elena stared at her husband. He wasn't eating. He was drinking his wine, gulping it like water.

Julianne didn't just have the same nose.

Elena closed her eyes, visualizing the photo in the locket again. The lighting. The angle.

It looked professional. Staged. Like a headshot.

Or a cutout from a magazine.