The words in my mother’s journal refused to leave me.
FIND THE ARCHITECT
I must have read the final page twenty times and every time the same uneasy feeling settled deeper into my chest. Because after everything we had uncovered, the Architect wasn’t just another name.
He was the name.
The person sitting at the center of every road we followed.
The person my mother had died trying to identify. The person connected to the Asset Program and the person hiding behind decades of secrets.
And somehow we still didn’t know who he was.
Three days later the rental house looked like a war room.
Maps covered the walls, photos covered the tables and documents stacks in every corner.
Coffee seemed to have become its own food group and Casey hadn’t slept properly and neither had I. So Dra
