Over my shoulder, I saw Dominic standing in the doorway.

He looked smaller than he had an hour ago, the sharp lines of his tailored suit ruined by the storm.

Lucia looked past me, her dark eyes—the Valenti eyes—fixing on him.

“Who is that?” she asked softly.

I looked at Dominic, seeing the raw ache on his face.

“That’s Dominic,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “He helped me find you.”

Dominic did not step closer; he simply bowed his head.

“Hello, Lucia,” he said.

His voice was barely a whisper.

He did not try to force a connection.

He stood there, letting the rain drip from his collar onto the linoleum floor.

An officer brought us some blankets, and we sat on the bench together.

Dominic sat on the opposite side of the room, his eyes never leaving us.

He looked like a man who had lost everything but had finally found the one thing that mattered.

The weeks that followed were a blur of lawyers, courtrooms, and news broadcasts.

Dr. Miriam Hale delivered her files to the federal prosecutors.