Stefan respired behind the wheel of his car, Aimee beside him in a hush. She was thinking over their conversation about the microchips, doubting him, he could tell. It surprised him, how new it all seemed. He remembered when he'd first heard of Aimee, when Buckley had found her and said she was important, without a why. Back then, he would not have believed there were microchips that could pump eternal life through a person's veins, or that he himself would be proof of their existence. The idea left him deciding whether it was thrilling or terrifying.

"You got over it so quickly," he spoke into the air. At first, Aimee didn't realise he was addressing her. "When you learned about your microchip, you adjusted to the idea with such ease. How?"

She sighed faintly, "I'd met my mother."

For a time, nobody spoke, like Abba was a tender topic. Aimee repositioned herself in her seat, tugged and fiddled diffidently with her seatbelt.

"I suppose it was because I felt relieved. Not because I was immortal or anything, but because I felt like I could do more, without anyone treating me like some fragile, wounded puppy."

"You felt free," he glanced at her, "independent."

Aimee nodded cautiously, "Is that how you feel?"

"No. I don't know; I just feel weird."

He took the next turn hastily, uncharacteristically, and then pulled over on the side of the road, someplace Aimee's eyes did not recognise, especially when hemmed in by the night. She placed her hand on Stefan's, he had not let go of the steering wheel.

"You're so cold."

"Yeah, it's come and gone since I was injected," he took her hand and held it between his and the wheel. "Don't suppose you ever experience that?"

A part of her knew that they would not have the same side effects; her chip was an older make and had been inside her for so many years. The one within Stefan was newer, better – Technologie Évolutive.

"No. But, Babe, as soon as we get back from finding Benjamin, we'll get these stinkin' chips removed, okay? Both of us."

Finally, he cracked a smile, "I like the sound of that," and she pecked his cheek. "But mostly because you called me Babe."

He started the car again, shifting into gear with that mischievous half smile on his face. Aimee shook her head at him, blushing – his smile still gave her butterflies. Stefan felt a little better, and the drive to GINM seemed remarkably short thereafter.

Celeste brought Gavin his lunch – he was half awake when she got to the medic room. She set the containers down and grabbed a cloth from a basin of water on the side table. Gently, she wiped the sweat that had merged with the beads of blood and dirt at the seam where his face met his hair.

"Beef stew, mixed veg, and creamed spinach, from last night," she uttered.

Gavin glimpsed at the diaphanous containers, thanking her, but not hesitating to bring up France. It seemed to hold an intense relevance to him.

"Are you going?"

Celeste carefully rinsed the cloth in its bath. "Do you want me to go?"

"No. Well, maybe. I would go."

She brought the cloth back to his forehead for a moment. "If our roles were reversed, you would go?" He couldn't answer her. She sighed, dried her hands on her jeans, "Don't worry; I won't stay where I'm not wanted."

"I never said that. Celeste!"

She trod out of the room in her thick-heeled boots, determined not to listen as he endeavoured to call her back with his desperately apologetic tone. He wished he hadn't spoken at all.

"Girls..." Dominick suddenly interjected.

At that, Gavin threw one of his lunchboxes at him – tiredly, yet effectively. With a painful cry, and clutching his embattled arm, Dom scrutinised the container's creamy contents.

"You couldn't have thrown the beef st– Ow!"

Celeste waited on the roof, near to Stefan's chopper where he and Aimee would find her. It'd gotten much colder out between then and when she had arrived. She'd think that her anger would keep her warm. She knew that Gavin was lying to her – everyone she cared about lied to her; that was just the way it was. But maybe her rage had turned into cold sadness as she wrapped her torso in her arms.

She might have cried, if Stefan and Aimee had not showed up when they had. Aimee seemed particularly glad to see her. Soon, they were in the chopper, seatbelts snug.

"So, we'll start looking in France?" queried Aimee.

"I think I know where he is," Celeste muttered.

A little over three years prior, Celeste had run from home. She remembered vividly what it felt like when she packed her satchel – it had seemed selfish to leave, but foolish to stay. It would get better, she had thought; she would not have to worry about Suzanne or Violet anymore, she could focus on what she wanted. If Benjamin ever cared for Suzanne, as a friend or as something more, that is where he would be, in Lille with her.

Lille.

For subtleties sake, they borrowed a car from a young Frenchman. It was Stefan's suggestion, although, Celeste did most of the talking. They parked the sedan across the street from the house and Celeste rolled up her window in the passenger seat. The natural ventilation had been necessary, since there were packets of food at the back of the driver's seat – the leftovers probably weren't very old, but the smell of them combined with that of the stale car heater air was suffocating – something the car's owner had left behind. It was chilly outside; Lille had been blessed with a day of rain, and despite it having stopped before their arrival, the sky was still stitched with heavy clouds.

Aimee stared at the house. She counted all the things that had not been there before: the pristine-green potted plants on the windowsills; beige curtains which seemed lifeless compared to the ol' gypsy-inspired draperies Aimee remembered; and the front door was new, or maybe re-varnished. The walls were painted blue – they were once a pale yellow. And she had yet to see the inside.

Aimee knew it had been years, knew that people moved on, but she hadn't thought Aunt Suzanne's could feel and look so different. To Celeste, it was the same. It was the place she had escaped, hidden from – now, she was walking through the front door. It opened silently, in an uncomfortable sort of way, as though it knew they were not supposed to be there.

They stepped into the foyer, with its sleek wooden floors and merry-coloured walls – the sofa, shelves and picture frames were all squarely shaped and modern red. At the foyer's summit spiralled a staircase, which took them upstairs into a living room. Aimee had just spotted a jellyfish-patterned rug when she heard talking, Benjamin and Suzanne partaking in a reciprocal debate. They were simultaneously loud and hushed, as though there was someone in the next room they did not wish to disturb.

"Then take her with. Take her with, we can all leave, the three of us."

"I cannot just pack my things and leave, Benjamin," she said his name with despair. "Violet has school, and she hardly knows who you are."

"We can find her another school. I'll be a good father to her, I promise you this."

Suzanne hesitated, sighed, "And what about money? All you had was AIM. Now, it is gone, and my sister is... GINM took you both from me once already, I can't go through this again!" Suzanne burst into tears then; they had impatiently erupted from her.

GINM took you both from me once already. Aimee wondered: what did GINM have to do with the night Abba and Benjamin should have died? Suzanne's tears stopped suddenly, she forced them to.

"Mama, what is the matter?"

Violet. Celeste recognised that voice anywhere. She had hoped that in her absence, Suzanne would be forced to play her part as a mother. Maybe it would work, she had thought, since Suzanne had always preferred Violet.

"Nothing, Violet. Everything's fine."

"She is lying, yes?" she watched Benjamin knowingly. "I'm ten, not two, Mama."

"Chérie, nous allons parler plus tard."

Suzanne spoke so kindly to her; for some reason it made Celeste's stomach churn. Reluctantly, Violet left the room, but Suzanne's voice lowered still.

"If you want us to leave, it has to be all of us. You have to accept her."

"That is what I have been trying to tell you."

"I mean Jane. Help me find her."

Celeste's forehead creased – the churning in her stomach returned – why did Suzanne want her? She wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Suzanne reminded Celeste of a doll; broken and incapable of self-repair. She was over-emotional, and an unfit mother for a long time (it seemed to run in Whitaker blood), but the truth was: Celeste knew why Suzanne spurned her so chillingly. It was simple; Celeste looked like Aimee, and Aimee looked much like Benjamin. Celeste was a reminder of both the niece and man that she loved, but could not have. Violet only had Suzanne's hair, her other features were the result of an anonymous donor.

"I'll find our daughter," Benjamin whispered, his hands light on Suzanne's shoulders. "I promise you."

"At least he keeps to his word."

Initially, Celeste was just a voice. Then, she came closer slowly, keeping to her usual strong and steady persona, even though she was trembling inside. Suzanne and Benjamin both did that heartened "Oh, you're okay!" thing.

"A needy mother who would drop everything to be with a man who left her for her sister, and a man who believes he is in love with and cannot live without either Moineau."

Suzanne sighed. Thinking over the many things Celeste had said, and the many things she wished to hear instead.

"Well, I suppose I am a fool, envisioning this reunion differently."

"Reunion? We're here for Benjamin." Her friends abandoned the shadow of the alcove at the head of the stairs and came into the floodlit living room. "I'm not going anywhere with either of you, ever."

Aimee decided to hold Celeste's hand as a means of comfort, unsure whether said comfort was for Celeste or herself. There were flames in Stefan's eyes as he looked at Benjamin.

"I'm sorry, but we really didn't come to chat," Stefan reached for his gun – a prototype he'd taken from his house – and pointed it tantalisingly at Benjamin's middle-aged mistress.

For a moment, Benjamin watched Stefan with doubt; he was the benevolent one, was he not?

The gun did not waver, but Stefan stepped closer, as sweat began to trickle down Benjamin's forehead. He heated up, while Suzanne remained frozen still in the face of mortality.

"No, stop!" At his words, everyone found their breath again. "She did nothing wrong, I chipped you!" he stood in Stefan's path. "You cannot shoot her."

"Well, I can't shoot you."

Aimee's eyes cut Stefan a stare. She hoped he knew what he was doing.

"Please, you cannot shoot her because," – this word shivered on Benjamin's lips for a while. He glanced at Aimee. "Honest to God, I am in love with her."

Stefan looked blankly at him, "For some reason, I find it hard to believe you are capable of such a human sentiment."

"I am," he tiptoed nearer to Stefan. "I loved Abba, and I'm sorry she's gone. But she's been gone for a long time. Suzanne was my first love. I don't think I ever stopped loving her."

They shared a glance, and their love seemed real. It made Aimee uncomfortable, but not for the reasons she thought it would. She was confused, too many things were unclear, and the thought of these secrets wormed beneath her skin.

"Two-timing bas–"

Aimee's hand tightened around Celeste's, so she said no more.

"I want to know the real story," Aimee intervened. "Tell me the truth about the night you and Abba died, about AIM, and about what you think GINM did to you," – she nodded to Suzanne – "And please don't spare me the details."

Suzanne stood, then twitched back a step as she met Aimee's gaze. When Aimee looked up from the ground, indomitable and passionate, Suzanne absorbed how mature she was now. She was mixed up in all of it. She did not need a gesture of sympathy or concern, she just needed answers.

Suzanne agreed. "But you may want to sit down for this."

Stefan finally put his weapon away, but the way they ogled her, it was as if she had invited them into a dark room with no exit. Aimee was the first to be seated – it seemed right, since she had been the one to ask. Celeste looked up and down at her mother, then straight into her eyes. For drawn seconds, she only watched her with hard expression. Maybe she was looking for something, a trace of maturity in Suzanne's eyes. Whatever she was looking for, she couldn't find it. Eventually, Celeste sat down, decidedly curious as to what truth Suzanne had to offer them.

She started at beginning: a game of Scrabble.