"Ivy, look at me," I say, my voice dropping to a soothing rumble. I take a slow step forward, raising my empty hands, letting the rifle hang by its sling. "Look at the scar, little bird. Look at the eyes."
She blinks. Her gaze flicks to my eyebrow. To the jagged white line.
Recognition floods her face, followed immediately by a collapse.
The gun slips from her fingers and clatters onto the floor. A sob rips from her throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated anguish.
"Silas," she chokes out.
I cross the room in two strides.
I drop to my knees and pull her into me. I crush her against my chest, burying my face in her hair. She smells of gunpowder and fear.
"I’ve got you," I murmur, rocking her back and forth. My own hands are shaking now. The adrenaline is crashing, leaving behind a cold, nauseating relief. "I’m here. I’ve got you."
She clings to me, her fingers digging into my tactical vest. She is sobbing hysterically, her whole body convulsing.
"I killed him," she cries. "He came in... he had a gun... and I squeezed... I just squeezed..."
"Shh," I soothe, stroking her hair. "You did good. You did exactly what I told you. You survived."
"There was so much blood," she whispers. "It sprayed on the books. It’s on the rug."
"It doesn't matter," I say fierce. "Let it burn. Let the whole house burn. You are alive."
I pull back slightly to look at her. I need to see her. I need to check for injuries.
I cup her face with my hands. My thumbs wipe away the tears.
"Did they touch you?" I demand. "Ivy, look at me. Did they put their hands on you?"
She shakes her head. "No. I... I hid. In the office. I found the gun."
"Good girl," I breathe. "My brave, vicious girl."
My eyes drop to the floor around us.
I see the papers.
Files scattered everywhere. The contents of the filing cabinet I kept locked.
I see the file labeledROSS, MARCUS. I see the file labeledROSS, IVY.
The photo of her at sixteen, sitting on the museum steps, is lying face up near her knee.
I freeze.
I look back at her face.
She isn't just crying from fear. She is looking at me with a new expression. It’s raw. Open. Confused.
"You knew," she whispers, her voice trembling. "You’ve always known."
I don't deny it. There is no point. The evidence is literally surrounding us.
"Yes," I say.
"You paid them," she says, picking up a piece of paper—the receipt from the Albanian cartel. Her hand is shaking. "Four years ago. You paid forty-five thousand dollars for me."
