Five years old. I'd raised him with my own hands, held him every night and told him stories—and now that same little boy was clinging to Leonora's leg, face upturned, eager to please, calling her—
Mommy.
Leonora looked down and stroked Ryan's hair, her smile impossibly tender. Then she raised her eyes to mine, and the triumph in them didn't even try to hide.
"There's my good boy."
Her voice was soft. She glanced at Landon. "Mommy was just talking to Daddy, sweetie. You couldn't wait for Mommy to pick you up, could you?"
The color drained from Landon's face.
He crossed the room in two strides and pulled Ryan away from her.
"Ryan, you got it wrong. That's your aunt."
"But Auntie told me to call her that."
Ryan blinked, all innocence. "Auntie said she's my real mommy. She bought me tons and tons of toys and said if I called her Mommy, I'd never have to go back to that stupid house."
The blood in my veins ran backward.
"Landon."
I heard my own voice—hoarse, barely mine. "You've been taking Ryan to see her?"
Landon swallowed. He said nothing.
Leonora laughed—a bright, shaking, delighted laugh that carried across the room.