Choose the records. Nine living families deserve answers more than you deserve details about an accident. Nia turned slowly. Why do you care which one we open? Celeste settled back.
Because I care about the children harmed by the system. You just tried to make us numbers 10 and 11. Officer Mercer moved between Celeste and the twins. Do not advise them again. The countdown reached 8 minutes.
Zuri studied the labels. Both used clear block letters, but the wording felt wrong. Their mother never described evidence as proof. She always called it a record. Proof was what someone claimed a record meant.
Simone taught them that difference after Zuri once blamed Nia for breaking a lamp. The broken glass was a record of what happened, not proof of who caused it. Mom didn't write those labels, Zuri said. Peter agreed. The cases were registered after her death.
Nia turned Mr. buttons paw over the blue stitches formed two uneven paths beginning beneath the same thumb. A mistake can become a map if you remember where it began. Zuri looked at the two cases. Two paths, one beginning. They don't want us to choose the wrong case, she said.
They want us to accept that we have to choose. Officer Hayes leaned closer. What are you suggesting? Both scanners have separate timers, but they started at the exact same second. Peter understood first.
The cases are linked. If touching one erases the other, Zuri said, "What happens if we touch both together?" "The bomb technician warned that simultaneous contact could still destroy everything. So could waiting," Nia replied. Officer Hayes did not decide for them. "The evidence belongs to your mother and the affected families.
This choice is yours." Zuri looked at Nia. No words were needed. They had shared rooms, birthdays, punishments, and every frightening night since the hospital call. People often assumed their matching faces meant they thought the same way. They did not.
Zuri questioned everything. Nia remembered everything. Together, they noticed what adults missed. The twins asked to be taken only as far as the aircraft doorway. Police placed the cases on the jet bridge, safely separated from the cabin.
Zuri stood before the case carrying her name. Nia faced the other with Mr. Buttons beneath one arm. The timers reached 6 minutes. On seven, Nia said. Officer Mercer frowned.
Why seven? Because mom's first stitch always started on seven. Zuri counted. 1 2 3 4 5 6. Both sisters placed their palms on the scanners.
Seven. The timers froze for 3 seconds. Nothing happened. Then both labels disappeared. A single sentence appeared across the two screens.
Separation test failed. Merge the record. Locks released simultaneously. Passengers close enough to see began whispering. Clare stared at the sisters she had treated like helpless suspects.
Their next move had not chosen between the other children and their mother. It rejected the trap completely. Inside Zuri's case sat nine sealed travel files, one for each earlier child. Inside Nia's sat a damaged camera, a service road access card, and Simone's red notebook. Officer Hayes photographed everything before investigators moved the cases to a secured cart.