“You believe it will put her at risk,” he continues.
“Yes.” That’s an absolute fact.
“And withholding it won’t?”
I look away, turning my gaze back to the window. There’s no good answer.
“She deserves to know,” he says.
“I know.”
“Then what’s stopping you?”
I let out a broken laugh, sounding bitter. “Take your pick,” I say. “Timing. Safety. The fact that I got the information in a way she’d never forgive me for.”
That gets his attention. “What do you mean?”
I take a deep breath, preparing myself for this. Saying it out loud, especially to Dad, makes it feel worse than telling Mason did. “I didn’t ask for it. I took it.”
His gaze sharpens further. “How?”
“A hair sample,” I admit. “From her brush.”
This time he doesn’t hide his reaction. It’s disapproval, heavy and clear. It’s not loud disapproval or explosive, but it’s obvious. I can’t think of a time when he looked so upset with me, even when I was eleven and he brought me to the office and I broke a prototype security drone because I picked it up without permission and dropped it.
“Do you understand what you’ve done?” he asks quietly, echoing what he’d said when I was eleven and stood there looking down at the drone… the drone that was in eight pieces.
“Yeah,” I tell him, looking back at him in our matching chairs.
“You’ve violated her trust.”
“I know.”
“And if she finds out-”
“She will,” I cut in. “I’m not keeping that from her.”
“Then you’ve created two problems,” he says. “The man hunting her and the man she’ll believe you’ve become.”
That’s the part I can’t fix, the part that doesn’t go away with explanation or justification.
I drag my hand down my face. “I didn’t have a choice,” I mutter.
“You always have a choice,” he replies.
“Not when people are dying.” The words slip out before I can stop them. And the second they do, I hate them. I’ve used that excuse before, but it’s never as simple as it sounds.
My father watches me carefully. “That’s a dangerous philosophy,” he points out.
“It’s a realistic one.”
“It’s a convenient one,” he counters.
Silence. Again, he’s not wrong. But that doesn’t make this easier.
“I need to figure out how to tell her,” I say.
“Yes,” he agrees. “You do.”
