Chapter 7

I found Damian in his home office at dawn, staring at a laptop open to the newspaper’s website. The headline read: LOCKE MEDICAL CEO COVERED UP DEADLY WAREHOUSE NEGLIGENCE. His face was gray. He looked like a man who had aged ten years overnight.

“Victor leaked the report,” I said.

“I know.” He didn’t look at me. “He also transferred the blame to me. The forged logs have my signature on them. I don’t know how he did it, but they do.”

I sat down across from him. The crayon drawing was still on the desk. Leo was still asleep upstairs.

“I have Victor’s real logs,” I said. “I took them from his office the same night I found the transplant file. I also have bank records showing he embezzled from the transplant foundation. I have enough to prove he forged the safety reports and blamed you.”

Damian finally looked at me. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Why would you help me? I buried your husband’s death.”

“You did.” I leaned forward. “And you’ve been paying my mortgage for a year. You wrote me letters you never sent. You’re a coward, Damian, but you’re not Victor.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to change the company. I want the safety report to become public, and I want you to take responsibility for the cover-up. I want you to resign. And I want you to make sure no other worker dies because Locke Medical cut corners.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “But I need one thing from you.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell Leo.”

I looked at the crayon drawing. The child’s heart. E.V.

“He deserves to know,” I said.

“He deserves a childhood.” Damian’s voice broke. “Please.”

I didn’t answer.

The next night, Leo woke up crying. I went to him. He was sitting up in bed, his hand pressed to his chest, tears running down his freckled face.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re okay.”

“Why does it feel like this?” he asked. “Why does my heart feel like it’s not mine?”

I sat on the edge of his bed. I looked at this boy-this stranger’s child, this living grave-and I couldn’t lie to him.

“Because it isn’t,” I said.

And I told him.

I told him about Elias. About the warehouse. About the donor card he signed when he was twenty-two. I told him about the crayon drawing and the initials and the way his father had been paying my mortgage out of guilt.

Leo listened without moving. When I finished, he looked down at his chest.

“So I’m alive because someone else died.”

“Yes.”

“Do you hate me for it?”

I reached out and took his hand. “No,” I said. “I could never hate you.”

The door creaked. Damian stood in the hallway. He had heard everything. His face was wet.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Leo, I’m so sorry.”

Leo looked at his father. Then he looked at me. Then he looked down at his chest, where Elias’s heart was beating.

“Can I meet his family?” he asked.

I squeezed his hand. “I’m his family.”