His eyebrows went up, and his lips curved into the meekest smile, wavering at the edges, as if he was afraid to let it completely loose, for fear of scaring me off. “Any particular job?”

I shook my head. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

He closed the basement door behind him and put the glasses on, then pulled the towel off his neck and used it to wipe his forehead. “Have you thought about photography?” he said into the towel. He was acting nonchalant, but I knew the question was incredibly loaded. He would love nothing more than for me to follow in his—and in some ways, Mom’s—footsteps.

“Not really.” Truth, I had thought about it, and had immediately dismissed it. Mom’s death, the way her life intertwined with the Hollises’, Dad’s deception, had all soured photography and film for me. I wasn’t really sure what I would do if not policing, but I knew I didn’t want to be involved in the tawdry shit my parents had been involved in.

“I was thinking maybe you could go on a shoot with me sometime,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

Like, a really long while. I had been in middle school last time I joined Dad on a shoot. It was boring and hot and I got sick of being told to stop distracting the models and hold the light reflector steadier and, no, I couldn’t swim, even though I was sweating and we were on the beach, because this wasn’t a play day, it was business.

“What do you think?” he prompted when I didn’t respond.

I shrugged. “I guess. Not, like, out of town, though, okay?”

He tossed the towel over the back of a kitchen chair. “Why not?”

Because I have answers to find. “Because I . . . have jobs to apply for.”

He gave me a skeptical look—who would blame him?—but played along anyway. “Okay. I have one coming up. One of my models wants to do an updated urban shoot for her portfolio. I’ll let you know.” He walked to the kitchen sink and poured himself a glass of water. “So. Research for the rest of your day?”

Day. Celeste Day.

God, even if I figured out what Celeste Day was, who was to say it had anything to do with Jones, Luna, or the white-blond-haired man who helped her get away?

Well. It was all that I had. I had to go with it, because it was the only thing I could go with at all.

“Yep,” I said.