“I heard.”

“I’ll see what I can do about the flight,” she said to Kane.

“Okay.”

Kane watched through the front window as Anne Lindgren walked deeper into the base. What was that uniform? The shower was still running. He started searching for a phone or computer he could use, but something caught his eye in Connor’s room.

The room was closest to the front door, messy with what you’d expect: clothes, comics, some sketchpads and paints. Beside the bed was a framed photograph of a man holding a certificate, a boy beside him, both squinting into sunlight. This was what Kane had seen. He walked in, picked it up. The pair were outside, in front of a windowless building with manicured lawns. To their left, white letters on a curved brick wall spelled FLIGHT RESEARCH TEST CENTER. To the right was a sculpture of a rocket.

The boy was visibly Connor, aged six or seven: grinning widely. Kane didn’t recognize the man. He had his free hand on Connor’s shoulder and was smiling, with neatly parted black hair, sideburns. He had Connor’s deep-set eyes. Kane read the certificate: The Association for Military Research Distinguished Scientific Award. It was inscribed to Dr. Jack Moretti.

“My dad,” Connor said.

Kane turned. Connor came into the room, a towel around his bare shoulders, a pair of jeans on. “My real dad,” the boy clarified, with a grimace.

“It’s a nice photo,” Kane said, processing this new information fast: recasting Thomas as a stepfather, reaching for its significance.

“Thanks.”

“Where is this?”

“California.”

Connor threw the towel onto the bed and found a T-shirt to pull on. Kane returned the picture to the bedside table.

“Where is he now?”

“He died when I was six.”

“I’m sorry.”

The boy shrugged, sat down on the bed. Kane thought back to Taylor’s message. Rory had been interested in Jack Moretti just before he died. Taylor had said Moretti hanged himself a decade ago. One of the last messages the engineer had sent included his name. What happened to Jack Moretti? Had Rory seen the photo? Why did he think it was important?

“Where in California?” Kane asked.

“Where he worked.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

Connor stared at him.

“That’s what Rory asked,” he said, finally.

“When?”

“When he was here.”

Kane watched the boy. He felt something slowly shifting in the fabric of the reality around him.

“What was he doing here?” he said.

“He’d come around sometimes. Him and Thomas were friends.”

“Really?” Kane tried to remember how Thomas had spoken about Rory. Not as a friend, that was for sure.

“He killed himself,” Connor said.

“Rory?”

“My dad.”

Kane glanced at the photo again. “He looks like a nice person.”

“He was.”