FORGERY . . . THE BOYS ! [1]

nineteen.

The car ride is just four people: Brooke, Ben, Hughie, and Butcher. Butcher sat in the passenger seat against his will instead of behind the wheel after his fainting spell. Hughie came to make sure that he made it home safely after this.

Because Brooke did not intend to stay with them, she decided quickly after M.M.'s announcement.

That was always her goal. Ben. Anastasiya. Malibu.

Slowly, somehow, those pieces each were falling into place. She would have her little girl, and while she didn't get to raise her, she would get to have her while she was still relatively young. Young for Brooke and Ben.

Young for her.

She would probably age like them, in the sense that she would not.

She would also need help in developing her powers. She would need help unraveling her trauma in the labs, because it was far more extensive than her parents' was.

It was much more parenting than Brooke ever hoped to get, as selfish as it sounded.

A smile crept onto her face. A smile that quickly became tears.

Grace Mallory's house was far into the middle of nowhere, which made sense but was an impossible drive to make while knowing what awaited her.

She did not let go of Ben's hand the whole way.

Ben was calm. She partly wondered if she ruined him when she vanished his outburst, but no, there in his chest was a pounding heart, beating quickly against his ribcage.

Occasionally he would glance down and meet her eyes, and she would see in that melty green all of the emotions that she felt. Panic. Worry. Excitement. Devastation.

"What did M.M. say, exactly?" Hughie asks, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

Butcher grunts. "I'm not bloody telling when you won't let me goddamn–"

"Yeah, yeah, but what did he say?"

"She's got Mrs. Petrov in custody until the authorities can get there with the proper charges and Missus Petrov is alive and well." He smiles tightly at him, glancing over his shoulder at Brooke and Ben in the back, too. "Happy?"

Ben shakes his head, the first movement he's made in nearing an hour. "No."

"No?" Butcher sits up a little, his eyebrows to his hairline. "Well why not?"

"It's not Missus Petrov," Ben says it like it burns his mouth on the way out, "she's our daughter, not hers."

"Tell that to the woman who actually raised her."

Brooke kicks the back of his seat. "Tell that to the woman who birthed her." She sits back dramatically, falling half against Ben's chest. "Need I remind you that you lost your not-kid?"

Butcher is silent for a few minutes. "Fair play."

The driveway is long and gravelly, leading to a house built like a log-cabin. Deep green trees and grass fill the yard.

On the front porch sits Grace Mallory. Brooke would know the blonde hair anywhere, still tied so tightly that she's sure that it plucks right off just like that.

There are two other cars in front of where Hughie parks. Brooke figures it's Grace's and Natalya's, one of which will have to be disposed of after Ben gets his hands on Natalya's neck.

But there are more important manners than vengeance and murder.

That's always been what she's thought, always been her goal. There was always her little girl, somewhere out there, waiting for her. Except in her mind she wasn't always little.