I walk through the living room, fighting the urge to break down, and scour it for anything that might be personal or that my dad might have left for me to find. There are a coffee table and a couch with a charcoal-gray throw in front of a fireplace, two overturned chairs and a broken table next to the window, and a bookshelf with books scattered on the floor. The problem is that everything in the room is bland; there’s nothing that reminds me of Pembrook or that feels personal in any way.

Aarya and Ines systematically inspect the apartment, flipping through the pages of the books and checking the kitchen drawers for false bottoms. Ash stands by the window, peering beyond the curtains down the street. I can only assume he’s keeping watch for Lion assassins.

“Anything?” he asks after a couple of minutes.

“A big fat nothing,” Aarya says, and I nod in agreement.

“I’m going to check the bedroom,” I say as I move toward it, remembering the day at my house when I was certain Ash wouldn’t find anything in there. And to my surprise, Ines follows me in.

“How can I help?” she says.

“The quilt,” I say. “At my house there was a message in one of the seams.”

And she immediately goes to work. I pick up my dad’s duffel bag. Plaid blanket, plaid duffel bag—it feels like an obvious association. Plus, no one but me would know that we have matching bags.

I go over the outside of the duffel bag with my fingers, checking the seams and the fabric for any possible bumps, but find nothing. I open the bag and it’s empty, with only the faintest whiff of my dad’s peppermint aftershave remaining. I press my lips together and shake my head, forcing myself to focus. And then I see it—inside the side pocket is my dad’s favorite whittling knife with the handle shaped like a wolf.

I pull it out and flip it open, but there’s nothing there but the blade. My heart sinks—what if he didn’t have time to leave me a message? I slip the blade into my boot, unwilling to leave it behind for the Lions to find, and I move to the armoire. I pull the doors open and inside hang simple black and dark gray clothes, exactly what you would expect from a Strategia wardrobe. I flip through the shirts and pants, running my hands over the pockets and the cuffs, looking for anything that might be out of place.