My pulse downshifts to a more even rate. “It’s okay. The question’s personal. I get it.”

“My parents,” he blurts. “It’s funny, really. The rumors couldn’t have gotten it any more wrong. In order to bribe anyone, they would first have to care. And the truth is, they never wanted me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “It’s tough when parents put their work ahead of their kids.”

“No, you don’t understand.” He rubs his neck. “My dad’s just a distracted person, but my mom actually doesn’t want me. She tells me all the time. She accidentally got pregnant when they were starting their business, and Khun Ta threatened to disown her if she got an abortion.” His words spill out in a rush now.

“She’s never told me she loves me. Not once. In the third grade, I brought home a Valentine, a big red heart I’d made in art class, with the words ‘I love you, Mommy’ across the front. Do you know what she said?”

“What?” My stomach clenches involuntarily.

“She said never to call her Mommy again. I was to refer to her as the formal Khun Mai, and that’s it.”

The ache in my chest is so tangible, I could hold it in my hand. Your parents are supposed to love you above all else. And when they don’t, you can’t help but question your worth. I should know. The doubts started when Mom left. But every instance of Dad’s indifference reinforces those insecurities and makes them real.

“It’s her loss if she doesn’t value you properly,” I say fiercely.

“Maybe.” He moves his shoulders. “Anyhow, I just wanted you to know. You flew to my defense, even though we just met last week. And that means something. I didn’t want you to think otherwise.”

I lick my lips. I’m glad my words mattered to him…but why is he telling me now? “Are you, uh, saying all this because you think we’re in some kind of danger?”

He laughs. “Why would we be in danger?”

Oh, maybe because I have a gun in my backpack. And we’re about to knock on the door of the person I’m plotting to kill.

He faces the door again, and prickles of apprehension cover the fullness of my heart.

Nobody answers the first knock. He tries again, trading in his knuckles for a fist, banging instead of tapping. Still nothing.

He cranes his neck to peer around the cabin. “His car’s not here. Weird. He never goes out. Even his groceries are delivered once a week. Plus, he was expecting me.”

He tries the knob, and the door swings open. A scent wafts out, dank and musty. Instantly, the hair on my neck stands up. I have no idea what the smell is. I just know I don’t want to be here.