His door is cracked only an inch. I pull it a little wider so I can step inside.

Oran looks up at once, his dark eyes deeply shadowed. The only light in his office comes from the lamp on his desk.

I can’t tell if he’s surprised to see me or not. All he says is, “You’re back.”

“Yes,” I say.

“Where’s your handsome bodyguard?”

“At home. In Tennessee.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding and setting down his pen. “So you gave him his walking papers.”

“I didn’t think I needed constant surveillance anymore. Since the Djinn is dead.”

I watch his face very closely when I say this. Looking for a response.

This time I do see a flicker of something in his eyes . . . not surprise. I almost think it’s anger.

“The hitman is dead?” he asks.

“That’s right.”

“Are you sure?”

“I watched him die. Then I buried him in a field. So yes, I’d say he’s pretty fucking dead.”

Uncle Oran leans back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him.

“Always so blunt, Riona. So frank.”

“You used to compliment me on my honesty when I was a child.”

“That I did,” he nods. “Come . . . have a seat.”

He gestures to the chair across the desk from his. It’s a large chair, comfortably upholstered. I’ve sat in it dozens of times. Tonight it looks different. The straight back and stiff arms look stern and unyielding. They remind me of the wooden chairs used to electrocute prisoners.

I sit down across from him.

“I don’t like this outfit,” Uncle Oran says with a tsk. “Or the hair. I’m sorry to say, my dear, you’re not looking your best.”

I could say the same thing to Uncle Oran. The lines on his forehead are the deepest I’ve ever seen them, and the bags under his eyes look like bruises. I think he’s even lost weight. His suit, usually so impeccably fitted, seems to hang off his shoulders.

Instead I say, “It’s been a strange couple of weeks for me. Very strange.”

“Nothing soothes a troubling week like a drink,” Uncle Oran says.

He stands up and walks over to the globe. I know from past visits that several bottles of liquor are concealed within, as well as cut-glass tumblers. He pours himself a glass of brandy, and scotch for me. Those are our usual drinks. But when he passes me the glass, I set it down on his desk without drinking.

Uncle Oran takes a long sip, leaning against the edge of his desk and looking down on me.

“I always thought if I had a daughter, she would be like you,” he says. “There’s a certain ruthlessness, an arrogance in you that I recognize from myself. But the honesty . . . I don’t know where that comes from.” He chuckles. “Certainly not from any Griffin.”

“I think it comes from my father,” I tell him, coldly. “He’ll at least stab you in the front, instead of the back.”