“All right,” Holden said. “I tried.” He heaved up off the floor, reached for his bag, pitched the strap over his shoulder, and moved for the door.

She studied him, confused. “You’re going somewhere?”

“Like I told you, I tagged along as an extra set of eyes and extra rifle in case shit went sideways, and we’ve gone straight past sideways into upside down. If your brother can’t count on you, then someone’s gotta save his ass, and I guess that someone’s me.”

She said, “Wait. Hang on.”

Holden paused, hand on the door hardware.

She pulled in detail, reading him the way she’d read people her whole damn life, and inside her chest the first anxiety flutter rose. He wasn’t bluffing, and this wasn’t a power play or negotiation. It simply was. And when he left, he’d be gone.

She wasn’t ready for that, not like this, not with everything on his terms right after she’d spilled her guts. She said, “You don’t have to save him right this second.”

Holden smiled wryly, as if he knew exactly how this worked and was amused enough that under other circumstances, he might have humored her.

He depressed the handle.

The anxiety fluttered harder.

There was always room for negotiation if the motivation was right. The one thing she had that he wanted was information. She patted the floor and, offering the secret that would cost least to give up, said, “I’ll explain France.”

He released his thumb. He didn’t sit.

She said, “How much do you know about Dmitry?”

“Only that supposedly, he’s your father.”

“But who he is or was?”

“No.”

“Nobody does. Clare’s version of events—believe it at your own risk—was she was deep-cover CIA in Moscow, running a guy who was KGB and actually running her. They had a real-life thing for each other, which is how she got pregnant. Yada yada yada, skip a lot of drama, she ends up cut off from her people, Dmitry gets her out of Moscow, tells her he’ll follow, and asks her to wait for him. She never hears from him again. Clare being Clare, she tries to contact him, which is when she discovers Dmitry—KGB or otherwise—never existed. She has no idea whose body she was having a thing with. She’s tried to get that answered a few times but always ended up almost dead for it. Lots of years pass, more yada yada, and then two weeks ago the hit goes out on her, you enter the picture, and out of nowhere this so-called Dmitry turns up with tickets to Berlin. We have no idea if he’s our DNA donor, only that he says he is.”

She paused. Holden nodded, as if to say, “Go on.”