“Did she touch any of you before you came here?” Houndstooth asked.

“She went to school this morning. We came here,” Tristan said.

“I suspected that would be the way it went. It’s why I wanted to meet when she was in school. Minimizes the chances.”

“Why does it matter?” I asked. “We’re bugged?”

“Trackers, cameras, microphones, or—” he paused, and his mask meant that if he was making an expression or trying to convey something with the pause, it was more or less lost. “—Sound cameras.”

“She’s a lot better than she was when you knew her,” Tristan said.

“That’s great,” Houndstooth said. “I really do want things to work out for her. It’s just hard. I need to protect myself, my old teammates. I want to protect you. I want people in general to be safe. All that aside, again, I do want positive outcomes for her.”

“But?” I asked.

“But the Kenzie I know didn’t allow for that,” Houndstooth said. “So I had to prepare for this meeting, trying to figure out what to say and how to frame things while not hurting anyone.”

“She’s been in therapy for a little while,” Tristan said. “She’s improved by leaps and bounds from even the first time I met her. I really want to reinforce that.”

“I hear you,” Houndstooth said. “I’m just worried you’re not going to listen, and if that’s the case, then it’s a bad replay of me, our Protectorate leader and our PRT liaison talking to her school. It’s a replay of us having a meeting with her new foster parents. It’s a repeat of us talking to the parents of a new friend she’s made.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“We explained, they heard us, but they didn’t listen. They didn’t take it to heart, because she is—was nine. She’s cute, she’s precocious, and she has a really skewed skillset where she’s really good at getting close to people and she’s really, tragically bad at staying there. Messes follow.”

“She’s moving in a more measured way as she relates to the people around her now,” Tristan said. “She’s more easygoing. And so far, staying close? She’s doing okay. Fingers crossed.”

Houndstooth’s hand moved, thumb tapping against the side of his finger, and it looked like he was going to say something.

“Capricorn, was it?”

“Or Tristan.”

“Tristan. I hear you. I’m listening. She’s in therapy, she’s better. She’s made strides. If you had to give her a number, how much better is she? Throw a number at me. Eighty percent?”

“Ninety-five,” Tristan said.

“Ninety,” Ashley said.