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The pain wakes me. I hold my belly and feel the scar where I was shot. It feels hot, a sharp contrast to the cold air of the room. The covers are gone; I realize that I am sideways at the foot of the bed. I sit up groggily, shivering in the cold. Even though I managed to sleep a little, I feel more tired than the day before. Looking for the missing covers, my eye catches a dark spot in the bed. I crawl over to it.
Blood. The stain is unmistakable; I’ve seen it too many times in my life. I feel my chest tighten with fear as I look around the room. All is quiet except for the hiss of the air conditioning flowing through the vents. I back quickly away from the stain, feeling my feet hit the lush carpet as I leave the bed and head towards the bathroom.
I look at myself in the mirror and bring my finger up to my mouth. There’s a small crust of blood that goes down to my chin. I grab a washrag and gently wash it off. Another spasm of pain shoots across my stomach and I drop the cloth into the sink. I grip the sides of the sink till the spasm calms and my breath returns.Wincing, I make my way out of the bathroom.
Something is wrong, terribly wrong, but I don’t know what it is. I go to find Mireille.

“She’s in the bedroom on the left.” Henry nods his head. He’s in his sweats and sock feet, padding around the living room like a large dog. “I’ve called down for breakfast already.”
“Thank you.” I mumble, holding my stomach.
“Kirika- should I call a doctor? You don’t look well at all this morning.” He adjusts the pillows on the sofa and sits down, patting the cushion next to him. “Want to talk?”
“No.” I stumble past him. “I want Mireille.”

She’s still asleep; I watch her chest lightly rise and fall. She looks so peaceful- I want to touch her, to take some of that peace into my heart. I run my hand softly along the side of her face. Her lips part a little, but her eyes remain closed. My gaze wanders to the nightstand. I see the pictures on top of the letter. I look at her quickly and take my hand away from her, picking up the top photo.
I gasp out loud. It’s Mireille- a much younger, happier Mireille. Wearing a cream colored dress that compliments her hair. Smiling, in the arms of a man that although then much younger, has features that are unmistakable.
“Droger.” I shakily turn the picture over.
Dumond and Mireille. The handwriting is delicate. Was it written by her mother?
“Age four.” I whisper, reading the last of the writing. I flip the picture over again, staring in disbelief. Surrounded by a garden morning glories, the two of them look so happy- Mireille has her hand to his lips, gazing up at him; and he’s pursed his lips as if kissing her hand, returning her gaze.
“I adored him, once.” Her voice makes me jump and I drop the picture. I lean over to get it but her arm shoots out, blocking me.
“Don’t touch it again.” Her voice is a warning. “Those pictures don’t belong to you.”
I step back more as she swings her legs over the bed, bending over to scoop the picture up off the floor. She gently gathers up the pictures and letter. Hugging them to her chest, she walks over to the window. She looks outside for a moment, then sighs.
“Kirika, I don’t know how to tell this to you.” Her voice sounds uncertain. “Or perhaps I shouldn’t tell you at all.” She stares silently out the window for another moment. I hear her take a deep breath.
“I am the godchild of Dumond Droger.”