I relish that he knows me so well before recalling my newfound uncertainty over how well I truly know him. Still, I confess, I find comfort in the familiarity of his movements as he sheds his hat and overcoat onto a simple wooden bureau. In his dark suit, he strides to the far corner and crouches at the potbelly stove. While he tucks his pistol up inside, I observe his room to glean insight.

A washbasin stands beside a half-open door that reveals a small commode. High on a brick wall to my left, blackout curtains denote a window at street level, perhaps allowing for detection of footsteps. Hung off in a corner, a laundry-draped clothesline indicates he’s been in this spot for days, if not his full several weeks in the country.

With candlelight sending winglike flutters across the garments and his unmade bed, memories arise of the last time we were alone like this. In a bedroom. Together.

I shift back to my purpose. “So tell me, then.” I speak quietly, unsure how loud is safe here. “Explain how things can’t possibly be how they look.”

Arie remains squatting at the stove, his reaction unseen.

“Swear to me you didn’t actually betray the cell you were sent to help.” I hear in my voice how very desperate I am for a denial.

Twisting back only partially, hair mussed over his temple, he replies, “I can’t.”

The two syllables fall between us, jagged as teeth and even more cutting.

That wasn’t supposed to be his answer.

I struggle to understand, all good reason lacking traction, as if scaling an icy slope. “When questioned, I–I said I knew you better than anyone, that you could never do the horrible things they were saying. How could…” Muddling through, I manage to demand: “Why?”

Arie closes the stove door firmly and rises. He goes to a nearby box on the floor and rummages through the contents, surely for an object that will help support his actions. Something to justify them all.

He produces only a flask. With suit jacket unbuttoned, he kicks off his shoes and sits on the bed with his back against the brick wall. His unreadable expression further unnerves me. As he unscrews the lid of his drink, he seems on the verge of responding. But then he props a knee up and simply takes a swallow.

I plant a step forward. “Arie.”

“Do you remember the letters? The ones from Thea.”

I gape at him, exasperated by the use of his sister to dodge, or oddly to reminisce. At least his normal volume assures me I don’t have to whisper my retort. “After everything I’ve risked, coming here to try and keep you safe—”

“Her letters,” he says with a slight hitch in his voice. “Do you remember?”