The man held out his hand to shake hers and Alexa thought, Are these the manners of a murderer? She found herself shaking back—really, it was the only way to keep her hand from quaking right off her wrist, and also, for good or for ill, she had been brought up to respond in kind when presented with an outstretched hand. She peered around the man to see where the other men were. The accomplices. But there was nobody else there. Maybe they were still in the SUV. Readying the weapon, preparing for a clear shot.

“And I was told that the specialty of the house is something called the Ring? Which involves a doughnut along with the ice cream?”

“The Ringer,” whispered Alexa.

“Ah! Of course. The Ringer. Right.” He chuckled and rubbed his belly. He was awfully friendly for someone who was about to kill her. But then again, so was the psychopath in Killing Eve. Right before she killed her victims, she was utterly charming—seductive, even. “I have something to show you, if you don’t mind.”

The man furrowed his brow. Again there was something familiar about him, a flash in his expression. He reached into his back pocket and Alexa’s knees came close to giving out. She thought, Here we go. He was going for his gun, and she had nothing to protect herself with. She squeezed her eyes shut. Would Morgan know to call 911, once she heard the shot? Would Katie?

She waited for what seemed like hours but was probably an eighth of a second, and when no shot came she opened her eyes. The man was holding a small bronze coin.

“This is my five-year sobriety coin,” he said. “I bought it on Amazon, and it cost less than six dollars, but it’s incredibly meaningful to me. I told myself that when I earned this coin I would allow myself to come and find you.”

“What?” Her veins were still flushed with adrenaline; she couldn’t quiet her breathing into any normal pattern. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry,” said the man. “I should have led with an introduction. My name is Jacob.” He paused. “Jacob Thornhill.”

“Thornhill?” she said. “But that’s my—”

“That’s right,” said the man. He waited, as though giving her a chance to figure something out. “Go ahead,” he said finally, encouragingly.

“Wait. Are you my—?” No, this couldn’t be right. This was insane. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word out loud, and then she could. “You’re my father?”