It was a strange thing, preparing to betray one’s father.

  But what if that father was the baddie? What if he’d lied the whole time?

  Petyr padded up to the house, hands in his pockets, a careless look on his pretty face, trying to look and natural, well aware that Avesta was observing his every move from a distance.

  It’s not like I’ve put Dad in this situation, he told himself, a growing sense of apprehension causing his mouth to dry as he opened the front door. Who’s lied to whom, exactly? Who got this whole thing started? It’s not like I did this…

  Not to mention, Avesta said she only wanted to speak with Gregory. Petyr couldn’t very well be against that, could he? If his father—Squeezer—truly worked for that psycho Anders, then he had a lot of explaining to do.

  Of course, underneath all this ran a current of doubt.

  Why bother doing this at all? This wasn’t going to bring Jayne back. No matter whose daughter Avesta was, she was still just a stuck-up girl only slightly older than Petyr himself. And crazy, too.

  As soon as his feet hit the threshold, it was as if they turned to lead. Every drive to continue this poured out of him. Only one thought blared in his mind: Maybe this is a mistake.

  Maybe Avesta meant well, but this wasn’t her civilized and classy Soverni Republic; this was Windust—a heartless hellhole where no good deed went unpunished. What was going to happen if Petyr helped her go up against Anders?

  Even Nik—brutal as the gods when he needed to be—wouldn’t dare challenge that glowy-eyed freak. How could Avesta? What did she have? Sharp words and a great ass?

  She’s delusional, he thought. She doesn’t understand how things work here at all. No one’s going to come rescue her, if that’s what she thinks.

  Upon entering the house, Petyr face to face with his father. Gregory stood before him, a film of sweat on his bald head, a look of worry on his lined face. “Finally, I thought you were never going to be back,” he whined. “Have you seen Alis?”

  “She isn’t back yet?”

  “No, probably still out there looking for you.”

  Petyr frowned. “Weird. I didn’t see her in town.”

  Gregory sighed deeply, an impatient, condescending look on his face. “Well? What great discovery have you made? Did you crack the case, detective?”

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  As his father turned the other way to walk towards the kitchen, Petyr said, “I did actually. Anders killed her.”

  Gregory stopped in his tracks. He didn’t turn. Nor did he say anything. He just stood there for a time, frozen in the motes of dust dancing in the sunlit hallway.

  At length, he said, “That’s not possible.” There was genuine doubt in the voice.

  Petyr slipped out of his shoes and played dumb. “What’s not possible?”

  Gregory turned slowly, his eyes squinting hard under his thick-rimmed glasses. “Why would Anders kill Jayne, of all people? It makes no sense, Petyr…”

  “How do you know? Do you know him?”

  “Do I know him?…” Gregory opened his mouth, but strained himself to answer, sputtering nervously. “I mean… I… I’ve heard of him, of course. Who hasn’t? And he doesn’t sound like the type of man who would do a thing like that.”

  Petyr could not remember ever seeing his father act this hesitant about anything before. At the same time, his level of confusion did seem genuine, which meant that he probably wasn’t all that familiar with Anders, not in the nitty-gritty of it anyway. You couldn’t doubt that monster’s ruthlessness if you saw him with your own eyes.

  “I didn’t know that you knew him at all,” said Petyr, giving him a long look. “He seems to know you really well, though.”

  Gregory scoffed. “What? What does that mean?”

  “He said that I must be Squeezer’s son. I said I don’t know who that is. Then he told me it’s you.”

  The best lies always came mixed in with some truth, and there was no better evidence than the forced chuckle he vomited out like a grunt. “Right... Haven’t heard that in a long time.”

  “Why do they call you Squeezer?”

  Gregory wiped the rivulet of sweat trickling down his forehead and shrugged awkwardly. Petyr noticed his father’s eyes were refusing to meet his own. “Who knows. I don’t know what these bandits do, Petyr. Best you don’t talk to him at all. Or any of them, really.”

  So I shouldn’t talk to him, but you can work for him? “I never knew you were so important,” Petyr went on, feigning a smile, as if he were proud. In a way, he was; but the circumstances were messed up.

  “I’m not!” Gregory insisted, then took a deep breath. “Listen, let’s forget about all this. Anders, Squeezer, Jayne—let’s forget it. I’m sorry about Jayne, but she’s gone, and that’s that. There’s nothing you or I can do about it now.”

  It sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

  “So let’s just clear our heads, get started on dinner, and cook something delicious for when Alis gets home. What do you say, son? Can we do that? You don’t have a new date lined up already, do you?”

  The joke was in such poor taste that his father instantly regretted it, cringing and looking away after it left his lips. “It’s been a tough day for you. I know that. But the world out there”—he waved his hand to the town beyond the confines of their comfortable home—”is out there. Let’s focus on what’s in here, okay? On our family. Alright? Come on. You can help me peel some potatoes.”

  He walked off in a hurry, before Petyr could respond one way or another.

  No, this conversation is not over, Petyr thought, though he himself wasn’t too thrilled about continuing it. He felt compelled to; but he sure as hell didn’t want to.

  As he padded down the hallway after his his father, he glanced out the window. There, at the far back of their garden, where the forest swallowed the light, a sliver of grey fabric peeked from the shadows.

  Avesta.

  Dad, Dad, Dad… Petyr's earlobe burned as if the ghost of Avesta’s blade were slicing it back open. What the hell did you drag us into?