But then a photo snared her attention. Two pictures were framed on the lamp table, but only one of them instantly riveted her attention. She bent down to get a better look.

The small child in the photo was barely a toddler. He was outside-the same yard Carolina could see from the window-running in his pajamas, giggling, joy in his big eyes, his face. Someone was chasing him, causing all the laughter, the fun. The camera had just captured that moment, of a delightfully happy boy with taffy hair and pudgy fingers and unrestrained glee.

Carolina picked up the photograph with trembling fingers.

She knew the child. Tommy. It had to be Tommy.

Her eyes welled with tears. She couldn’t seem to help making a keening sound…and then realized, for the first time in ages, she’d not only made that helpless sound of affection and sorrow…

But she’d heard it. Heard her own voice.

Her hearing had finally returned.

Although Maguire never heard her walking around, some sixth sense triggered an awareness that Carolina had come downstairs. He severed the phone call and crossed the office to the door.

There she was, in the living area. Her hair fluffed around her cheeks, about as tame as gossamer, and the long robe swam on her slim frame. She was barefoot, holding Tommy’s photo in her hand.

He saw the tears in her eyes. The emotion. The vulnerability.

“Hey,” he said with alarm. But then remembered, of course, that she couldn’t hear.

On the other side of the lamp was another photo. He grabbed it, showed her. In the picture, Tommy was a little older, but not so big that Maguire couldn’t easily carry him around on his shoulders. Maybe they didn’t look physically alike, and Maguire was certainly a lot older, but the photo should have showed her their relationship. He loved Tommy. He was as crazy about his half brother as Tommy had always been about him. They may have had different mothers, but they were unmistakably kin.