Nobody in the attic said the words aloud.
*Riviera Mountain.*
It lay in the torn newsprint like a thorn. The same name that had been written in the Hitlers' adoption papers, in cramped black letters, under *place of discovery.* The same name Silveria had carried her whole life like a stone in her shoe.
Silveria sat on the dusty floor with her knees drawn up and the photograph in her lap, staring at the toddler's face. She hadn't spoken for ten minutes. Damien knelt beside her. He didn't push. He only kept one hand on her back, and every so often he rubbed a slow circle between her shoulder blades, the way you would calm a frightened animal.
Felix had gone downstairs to make a call. When he came back up, he looked ill.
"I've got a friend at the newspaper archive," he said. "Retired. He keeps his own files. He's going to open up the basement tonight and look for that date."
"Thank you."
