“Both before she was born,” Julien told me. “I grew up in a neighborhood where you either went to a gang or the gang came for you. I went to them when I was twelve, they raised me. I got shot once while working for them, and once when I left and didn’t keep it secret enough.”

“I only heard about the second one,” Kenzie said.

“Why did you leave?” I asked.

“If you asked me then, I would have said there were different middle managers. Now? Wasn’t me.”

“You said you were good at it,” Kenzie said. “Sales.”

“Mm hmm,” Julien said. “It wasn’t good for me.”

“I can respect that,” I said. “Leaving. That can’t have been easy.”

“Thank you,” he said. He looked down at Kenzie. “Was she at any risk?”

“Dad.”

“Minimal to no risk,” I said. “Given how everything went last week, it might have been riskier for her to stay home.”

“My wife invited you over, but with everything that happened and the station exploding near our home, you’ll need to give us a few days to get organized.”

“It’s a mess,” I said.

Julien nodded. His hand rose to his chin as he stroked his beard. His eyes were on the distance, first on the shattered horizon, and then on the street. “I can’t tell which one that is.”

I turned to look, wincing as my elbow banged the chair back.

I couldn’t tell who it was either. He walked with confidence, head high, but his hair had no paint or dye, and it was combed neat. He wore a vest over a button-up top. A lot about that image seemed to convey ‘Tristan’, but the lack of color and the more serious expression didn’t. He seemed to have Tristan’s build, but the cut of the outfit could have created that illusion. It was a nice suit, minus the suit jacket.

“Victoria. Kenzie. Good to see you two. Mister Martin,” he said, as he arrived at the table. By voice and manner of speaking? That was Tristan.

“Tristan,” Julien Martin replied. He put a hand on Kenzie’s chair back. “Kenzie. You wanted me to stay until people came?”

“You can go, Dad. Thank you for sticking around.”

He gave us a nod, and with hands in the pocket of his coat, he walked to his car, which was in what should have been a heavily contested parking spot.

Kenzie smiled, giving me a shrug. “Sorry.”

“Why sorry?” I asked.

“He’s embarrassing.”

“You pick the weirdest words,” Tristan said.

“Embarrassing doesn’t feel like the most accurate fit.”

“What do you think about him, then?” she asked. She leaned forward, hands still on her laptop.

“I—” I started. “Is it undiplomatic to say he gives me a weird vibe?”

“No,” Tristan said, settling into his chair.