Maybe she was being released.

Maybe . . . but the absence of the hood worried her—wherever she was being taken next, it didn’t matter if she could see, and with every passing second, her nerves tightened, the desire to do something wearing away at the knowledge of its uselessness. Don’t, don’t, don’t, became the echo in her head.

Soro broke the silence. “Humans have free will,” they said, picking up the thread of the earlier argument. “You chose to err. You chose to sin.”

If only you knew, thought Kate, fighting her own muscles, her own mind.

“People make mistakes,” said Kate. “Not everyone deserves to die.”

A ghost of amusement crossed the Sunai’s lips. “You died the day you took another life. I am simply here to clear your corpse.”

A cold chill ran through her at Soro’s words, at their hand drifting toward the flute-knife, at the echo of pain in her wrist.

But the elevator stopped and Soro didn’t draw the weapon. The doors slid open and Kate braced herself for whatever was beyond, for prison cells, or a firing squad, or a plank at the edge of a roof.

But there was only August.

No troops, no cells, nothing but August Flynn, looking so staggeringly normal, hands in his pockets, the tallies peaking out from his sleeves, that for a second, Kate felt her composure slip. The exhaustion and the fear laid bare. The swell of relief.

But something was off. He didn’t look at Kate, only at Soro. “I’ll take it from here.”

Kate tried to step toward him, but Soro caught her arm. “Explain to me, August, why she is—”

“No,” he cut in, an edge in his voice. It was the same edge Kate had heard in her father’s tone a dozen times, one she herself had mimicked, an edge meant to silence, to quell. It sounded wrong coming from him. “We both have orders. Follow yours, and let me follow mine.”

A shadow crossed Soro’s face, but the Sunai complied and Kate was shoved forward into the apartment. August caught her elbow, steadying her as the elevator doors slid closed.

“I don’t think that one likes me,” she muttered.

August said nothing, releasing the handcuffs with brisk, sure movements. The metal clicked free and fell away, and she rubbed her wrists, wincing slightly. “Where are we?”

“The Flynn apartment.”

Kate’s eyes widened. She’d known South City didn’t enjoy the same kind of luxury as the North, hadn’t expected Henry Flynn’s place to look like Callum Harker’s, but she was still struck by the difference, the utter normalcy of it. The penthouse at Harker Hall was a thing of steel and wood and glass, all edges, but this place looked . . . well, it looked like a home. Something lived in.

August led her down an entry hall and into the main room, a kitchen opening onto a sitting area, a blanket thrown over the couch. Down a short hall she saw an open door, a violin case leaning against the edge of a bed.

“What are we doing here?”

“I pleaded your case,” said August. “Convinced Henry to release you into my custody, at least for the night, so try not to do anything rash.”

“But it suits me so well.”

She was trying to defuse the tension, but August didn’t smile. Everything about him was stiff, as if they’d never met.

“What’s with the act?”

The slightest furrow formed between his eyes. “What act?”

“The steely, dark-eyed soldier act.” She crossed her arms. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice look—I just don’t know why you’re still wearing it.”

August straightened. “I’m the captain of the task force.”

“Okay, so that explains the clothing. What about the rest?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” What had he once said about going dark? That every time he did, he lost a piece of what made him human. Kate refused to believe he’d lost this much. “What happened to you?”

“Things change,” he said. “I’ve changed with them. And so have you.” He took a sudden step toward her, and the hairs on her arms stood on end. His gray eyes tracked across her face, his intensity uncomfortable. “Why did you come back?”

“Gee thanks, I missed you, too.”

“Stop deflecting.”

“I already told Soro—”

“I watched the feed,” he cut in. “I heard your answers. But I also saw . . .” He hesitated, as if looking for the words.

Kate’s chest tightened. The camera. There had been a moment—a fraction of a breath—when she’d forgotten about the camera and looked up, desperate to escape Soro’s gaze. She thought she’d caught herself in time.

“What happened to you in Prosperity, Kate?”

She fought to keep the words down. “Look, it’s been a hell of a day and—”

“This is important.”

“Just give me a minute—”

“So you can think of another way to bend the truth, to tell me something that’s not entirely a lie? No. What happened to you?”

Kate fought for air, for thought, the words rising in her throat.

August caught her by the shoulders. “Answer me.”

The order was like a blow against a breaking dam. The last of her resolve faltered, failed. She tried to clench her teeth, but it was no use—the truth came pouring out. She heard the words leave her lips, felt them slide across her tongue, traitorous and smooth. A confession.