The one with the rumpled white collared shirt and wearing jeans and socks had, she thought, her skin tone and also shared the same features as her brother. Same button nose and full lips.

Ellie took a knee beside him. She touched his back, felt him flinch, his muscles as hard as iron. He was physically fit, in great shape. Everyone here was—just like the two carriers she’d seen months ago at Sophia Vargas’s home in Brentwood.

Looking at him—at everyone—and seeing how healthy they were, how well cared for, triggered a memory of words Sebastian had said to her that morning at his home, at the table, when she inquired about his blood farms. I don’t like that term, Sebastian had said. It implies that I treat my carriers as livestock, which I don’t. You’d be surprised by how well they’re treated.

Sebastian had been telling her the truth.

“It’s okay,” Ellie told the carrier. “You’re safe.” Then she addressed the others: “You’re all safe. My name is Officer Ellie Batista. I’m with the LAPD. I’m working with a federal task force. You’re all safe now. It’s over.”

Roland spoke to the point man: “Tell them to bring the truck around. Back it right up to the front. Have them do a final sweep of the area first, make sure everything’s locked down.”

Ellie turned her focus back to the man lying on the floor. “I’m going to pull down the collar of your shirt. I just want to take a quick look at your neck, okay?”

The man didn’t answer, didn’t flinch as Ellie gently moved his collar down.

He had a patch of light brown skin on his neck—what doctors called a café au lait birthmark. It looked like a pair of drip marks sitting on top of each other.

Her brother had the exact same birthmark.

At least that was what her memory told her. What if she was wrong? What if she was—what’s the word?—projecting?

“Are you Jonathan Cullen?”

He didn’t answer—didn’t look at her, his gaze flicking between all the weapons aimed at him and the others.

“You’re safe now. I promise,” Ellie told him. “Are you Jonathan?”

“No. You’re thinking of somebody else.”

A part of her screamed yes, this was her brother, while another part, an overwhelming part, told her he was telling her the truth, because, really, what were the chances that J.C. could still be alive after all this time? And when Sebastian had said no, he didn’t recognize the boy in the picture, Ellie had believed him because, again, what were the chances?

But here was the birthmark, staring back at her.

It has to be him.

Ellie said, “Your mother always called you Jonathan, but everyone else called you J.C. You had awful earaches—so bad that you were going to get ear tube surgery. When you were little, you wore these bright orange floaties on your arms at the pool, and then even in the bath, because you were terrified of water. You wore a swimmer’s mask because you hated getting water in your eyes, and you wore that, too, in the bathtub when Mom had to wash your hair.”