“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did and it’s fine,” Ash says. “You’re right that Strategia parents aren’t as warm or cuddly as other people’s parents. But they have a level of responsibility that other parents don’t. They know their children will grow up to stop disasters, to thwart attacks, to sidestep wars—and they do what they need to in order to get us prepared. When you’re looking out for everyone, there are always personal sacrifices. Strategia aren’t perfect.”

“Speak for yourself,” Aarya says.

I nod because I’m not sure what to say. Ash’s point is absolutely fair, and from a nonemotional standpoint that logic makes perfect sense. But I’m not coming from a nonemotional standpoint and I don’t want to. I want my dad—the one I’ve always had, the one who loves me so much he would risk everything to keep me safe.

Ash slows and I spot the sign for Winter Street. We pass a restaurant cleaning up for the night and a closed chocolatier’s with the number 6 on the awning. And the instant Ash puts the car in park, I’m out the door.

I walk quickly to a brick apartment building with white trim, bay windows, and a bronze number 1. It only takes a few seconds for Ash, Aarya, and Ines to join me. We don’t discuss it; we just casually walk up to the door, and Ash pulls out his lock-picking tools as though they were keys. I stand next to him, blocking him from the view of any pedestrians, and in a couple of seconds we’re inside.

The lobby is modest but clean, with mailboxes near the entrance and a flight of stairs with a polished wooden railing. We walk toward the staircase at an easy pace, avoiding any movements that might signal we’re out of place here. And we make our way steadily up two flights, where the apartment numbers begin with twos.

Three doors down is apartment number twenty and my heart pounds furiously as we close the short distance. I take a hopeful breath, raise my hand, and knock. Four seconds pass. I knock again. Still nothing.

Please let my dad be here. Please.

I look at Ash and he pulls out his lock-picking tools, slipping them into the keyhole. There is the familiar click, and he cracks the door an inch. He peers through the opening, but instead of taking his time assessing the inside like I would have imagined, he opens the door wide.

For a split second I try to convince myself that it’s because he sees my dad, but in my gut I know that’s wrong. And the instant I lay eyes on the room, I panic. The living room is a mess—furniture overturned, glass on the floor, and blood.