“Can you stop that?” I ask, holding firm even as my limbs quiver. “What are you doing?”

“That’s NDA territory,” he explains, that hateful alien smile spreading. “You really know nothing, huh?”

“I guess not. I mean, I came here to figure it all out, but I’m realizing that was pointless. What can we talk about?” I ask, exasperated. “How about your face? What happened to your face?”

“Feisty.” He snorts. “This scar is from the fucking railing outside. I had a heart attack in the yard and fell on it. Pretty badass, right?” He rubs the fingers of one hand over it, and the skin strains and puckers grotesquely. “Makes me look like a Bond villain.”

“You had a heart attack?”

BEEP. BEEP.

“Was it from Hero Pharm medicat—”

BEEP. BEEP.

“Is there some kind of cult made up of angry people with three scars here? Because you’re the second one I’ve seen this week.”

His fingers hover over the keys. “Wait. You’ve seen him?”

Him. Every cell ices over. “Who do you mean?”

“I mean Brando,” he whispers, almost reverently. His seriousness rattles me. “You saw him this week?”

“I’ve seen a guy in a military jacket with three scars across his face, just like yours. Bearded. Following me.”

He catches my eyes, searching for something in them, his interest made plain for the first time.

“Who is he?”

His fingers move toward the BEEP key, and I hold out my hands to try to stop him.

“I’m just trying to figure all of this out. No one in my family will tell me the truth. They’re either dead, missing, or liars.”

“Isn’t that true of everyone?”

I shift weight to my other foot. “Please.”

He sighs, rubbing his cheeks, warping their furious skin. “I can’t tell you shit,” he finally says, before beckoning me closer with that sallow, aggressive finger.

I take a reluctant half step, only for Mitso’s finger to snap back, to press another hellish key hidden on the keyboard before him and blast loud metal music, the soul-shaking kind that implodes rooms. Flinching, I almost don’t notice his mouth moving, so I come closer.