“The woman in that picture,” he said, jerking his chin toward Lauren’s portrait. “I saw her yesterday. She’s alive.”
The two security guards near the door burst into laughter. One of them snorted.
“Get real, kid. That lady died years ago.”
Nathan let out a small, dry laugh too—a laugh with no warmth in it.
“Listen, son,” he said as he slowly stood. “That woman is my wife. And she’s dead. Don’t joke around about something like that.”
The boy stepped forward. His eyes—too big for his thin, hollow-cheeked face—burned with something Nathan couldn’t place. Fear, maybe. Or courage. Or just the simple, stubborn shine of truth.
“I’m not lying, sir,” the boy insisted, his voice cracking but steady. “I saw her on a deserted street near the old train station. She was on the ground, dirty and weak… but alive. She asked me for water and something to eat. She told me her name was Lauren. She made me promise I’d come here and tell you. She said you’d listen if I said her name.”
The glass slipped from Nathan’s hand and shattered on the floor. The sound exploded through the room like a gunshot. The guards stopped laughing. No one spoke. No one moved.