"My wife," I said finally, my voice low, steady — the kind of calm that always made people flinch.
"How is she?"
Silence.
A long, telling one.
Gray's eyes flicked down, his posture tightening. Cameron's expression shifted — the humor drained out of it. He shifted in his chair, jaw working, suddenly finding the floor fascinating.
No one answered.
I straightened slowly. "Don't make me repeat myself."
Cameron sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "She was discharged two weeks ago. Physically, she's fine. Comes in for regular check-ups. Kassel's people are monitoring her progress."
"Progress?"
Gray's voice came next, quieter, as if each word weighed more than it should. "She… lost her memory, sir."
For a second, I thought I'd misheard.Then the words registered — and every sound in the room went distant.
"What do you mean, she lost her memory?"
