“We drove all night!” Marissa’s strong arms tightened, and then she pulled back to scrutinize him. “We picked up your dad in Jax on the way. You look like shit.”

“You look amazing.” She was big and beautiful, wild hair and lush mouth, radiating health and joy, just like always—even after the grueling ten-hour drive from Miami to Atlanta.

Then Victor was there, and, awkwardly, Ángel accepted his hug too. “Mijo.” Victor cupped Ángel’s face in his hands, brows crooked with concern. “They hurt you. They treat you bad?”

“No, I—” Suddenly overwhelmed, Ángel felt his eyes fill with tears. His father despised displays of emotion, so he swallowed them. “They— No, it was okay. Until it went bad.”

“It wasn’t okay,” said Chandler. She had seated herself at the hotel desk while the other two crowded around him. She was in civilian clothes—jeans and an Oxford shirt. “None of it. You were a virtual prisoner there. You had no avenue for escape or opposition to anything that happened to you. No ground to stand on for resistance.”

He blinked at her, and saw, to his surprise, that she had cut her hair: the long sleek braid had been lopped off above the shoulder, and her dark locks waved softly around her face. It made her appear disconcertingly young. “I resigned from the DOR the morning of the attack,” she explained.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“That’s debatable. I hired Logan.” She cocked her head, ice-blue eyes assessing him. “You really don’t look so good.”

“And you stink,” said Marissa. She gave him a little push toward the bathroom. “Shower and shave, Angela. When’s the last time you ate?”

He shook his head, wonderingly. “I think I was in Idaho.”

“I’ll order breakfast.”

When he emerged from the bathroom, Marissa had turned the bed into a lavish room-service buffet: eggs, ham, fried potatoes, cheddar grits, sliced tomatoes, biscuits, sausages, orange juice, and coffee. Good Southern food. He accepted a cup from his father and a plate from Marissa. “Can we eat all this?”

“It’s on the DOR’s bill,” said Marissa, with rancor. “I’m thinking of ordering more. Talk, Ángel.”

“I was upset,” he said. “So I went outside for a walk . . .”

Marissa let him lean on her as he ate and told the story, and by the time he was scraping cheese off his plate with his fork, he felt physically better. His heart still ached, though, with a palpable pain, so after he set his plate down he said, “What I really need to do is talk to Oberon.”

“Why?” said Chandler, bluntly.

He and Chandler were the only people here who knew Oberon, who knew what it was like in that house in Montana. “You know why. He was worried when I disappeared.”

“He was, but I’m sure the DOR has told him that you’re okay.”