Chapter 9
The seatbelt sign chimed overhead as the Boeing 737 began its descent through the thick, gray cloud cover hanging low over Portland International Airport. Ethan stared out the small cabin window at the endless expanse of pine forests and winding rivers stretching out beneath the gray horizon. The flight had been long, quiet, and filled with restless rumination. He had spent the three-hour journey drafting and redrafting the conversation he was going to have with Maya Jensen, trying to find the exact combination of words that would explain who he was without sounding like an unstable stalker waving a folder of stolen family documents.
When the plane touched down with a heavy thud and taxied toward the gate, Ethan felt his heart rate spike. He unbuckled his seatbelt, retrieved his duffel bag from the overhead bin, and joined the slow-moving queue of passengers shuffling toward the exit. Stepping out into the Portland terminal, he was immediately greeted by the damp, earthy scent of the Pacific Northwest—a sharp contrast to the dry suburban air he had left behind in Ohio.
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He rented a compact sedan at the airport kiosk, tossing his bag into the trunk before plugging Maya’s address into the dashboard navigation system. The drive took him across the Willamette River via one of the historic steel bridges, navigating through neighborhoods characterized by craftsman homes, towering Douglas firs, and hipster coffee shops tucked into every available street corner. It was a world away from the manicured lawns and uniform brick facades of his hometown.
According to the directory Margaret Vance had provided, Maya Jensen lived in a converted warehouse loft on the industrial fringe of Southeast Portland, close to the riverfront art district. As Ethan parked his rental car along the curb beneath a canopy of wet maple leaves, he felt a sudden wave of nausea. He turned off the engine, resting his forehead against the steering wheel for a long moment, listening to the ticking of the cooling metal. This was it. No more files, no more archives, no more intermediaries. Just a door, a doorbell, and a sister who had no idea her entire past was about to walk into her studio apartment.
