Chapter 10
Ethan climbed out of the car, zipped his jacket against the persistent drizzle, and walked up the concrete steps of the brick warehouse building. A row of metal mailboxes lined the entrance, with a buzzer system next to each name. He scanned the brass plates until he found apartment 3B: M. Jensen. Without giving himself time to hesitate or talk himself out of it, he pressed the button.
A long, tense silence followed, broken only by the hum of traffic from the nearby bridge. Just as Ethan was about to press the buzzer a second time, a sharp click echoed through the intercom, followed by a woman's voice, slightly muffled and wary. "Hello?"
Ethan cleared his throat, his voice tight. "Maya? My name is Ethan. I know this is completely out of nowhere, and I know you don't know me, but... I need to talk to you. About Arthur and Eleanor."
Silence hung in the speaker for three agonizing seconds. The name seemed to register instantly, acting like an electric shock through the intercom system. When the buzzer sounded again, releasing the heavy security door with a loud mechanical clunk, Ethan felt the breath rush out of his lungs. He pushed the door open and stepped into the dimly lit stairwell, his boots echoing loudly on the concrete steps as he climbed toward the third floor.
When he reached the landing, apartment 3B was standing wide open. Standing in the doorway was the woman from the photograph—Maya Jensen—wearing the same paint-stained apron, her dark hair pinned back carelessly, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock, confusion, and deep-seated defensive caution. She looked at him with an intensity that mirrored his own reflection, taking in his height, his dark hair, and the distinct shape of his jawline.
"You look like him," Maya said without greeting, her voice remarkably steady despite the clear tremor in her hands. "Arthur. You have his eyes."
May you like
"I'm Ethan," he said quietly, stepping onto the threshold. "Your brother."
Maya didn't invite him in immediately. She stood blocking the entrance to her studio apartment, her gaze darting from his face down to the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, searching for any sign of a threat or a trick. The air between them was thick with thirty years of unshared history, unspoken grief, and the undeniable pull of shared blood.
