Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
But sitting here now, watching him lie vulnerable in that machine, trusting my father to help him when he has every reason not to trust anyone—
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I thought I knew. I thought I had it figured out. And then he…and everything I thought I knew just…” I make a gesture, helpless. “Shattered.”
“Love has a way of doing that.”
I shake my head. “Hell, I don’t even know what love is. It doesn’t feel like I thought it would. It feels like drowning. Like willingly drowning.”
He chuckles. “That’s exactly what it feels like.” His voice is gentle now, almost wistful. “Your mother and I—when we first met, I thought I’d never survive her. She was so fierce, so brilliant. Being near her felt like standing too close to a fire. Or being held underwater.” He pauses. “And then I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.”
I don’t want to talk about my mother. The grief is too old and too deep, buried under years of scar tissue that I’m not ready to pick at. I’m not really ready to talk to him about anything. It feels so odd to sit here with him, sipping tea, when there’s so much between us that we haven’t really faced, so much time that has passed and increased the distance.
“Erasmia.” My father reaches over and touches my hand, just briefly. “Whatever happens, whatever you decide about him—I want you to know that I’m proud of you.”
I look at him sharply. “Proud? For what, exactly? Falling for my target? Compromising my mission? Getting captured and tortured?”
“Proud of you for surviving. For becoming the woman you are.” His eyes are bright behind his glasses, and I realize with a terrible start that he’s close to tears. “I know I wasn’t—I know I failed you in so many ways. After your mother died, after we came here, I buried myself in work and left you to raise yourself. I told myself I was protecting you, but really I was just hiding. From the grief. From the guilt. From everything I’d done.”
“Dad—”
“Let me finish, please.” He takes a breath, steadying himself. “You had every right to hate me. To cut me out of your life the way you did. But you didn’t let it destroy you. You took all that pain and you made something of yourself. SOE, the missions, the work you do—you’re making a difference, Mia. A real difference. And I’m so bloody proud of you I can barely stand it.”
I don’t know what to say. This is more vulnerability than my father has shown me in years—maybe ever. The man I grew up with was all clinical detachment and careful distance, emotions locked away behind a wall of British reserve.
“Mank told me you used to work together,” I say, steering us toward safer ground. “Back in the MI6 days.”
My father nods, raising his glasses off his face and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Roger and I were partners for a while. Good man. Stubborn as a mule, but good.”
“Do you miss it? Being a spy?” Something I’ve always wondered but never wanted to ask, never wanted to look like I cared.
He considers the question. “Sometimes. The work, the purpose, the feeling that what you’re doing actually matters. I think I live vicariously through you now, reading your mission reports, imagining myself back in the field.” He gives me a small smile. “But I’m happy here. The research, the quiet, the distance from all the politics and backstabbing. It suits me.”
“Even though the Madrona Foundation that you work for is corrupt?” The words come out sharp. “Even though they’re unethical, have done all sort of shady deals? I know they’ve been at the forefront of biological research for decades, but they don’t have a great track record.”
My father doesn’t flinch. “If you think MI6 is above corruption, you have no idea how the world actually works.”
“SOE isn’t—”
“SOE is idealistic. Even their motto is: Reap What You SOE. You and your friends, you believe in the mission, in doing what’s right. And that’s admirable.” He meets my eyes. “But the people above you aren’t idealists, Mia. They’re politicians and bureaucrats and intelligence officers who’ve made compromises you can’t bloody imagine. I wouldn’t put too much trust in them.”
I narrow my eyes, my gut feeling like ice. “What do you mean?”
“Call it instinct. Call it experience. Never trust the government, even a British one.”
The warning settles over me like a chill. I think about Bayo, about Kat, about the missions I’ve run and the orders I’ve followed without question. I think about Cal. Have I been naive? Have I been a pawn in someone else’s game this whole time?
But the thought leads somewhere else. Somewhere darker.
“Dad.” I set down my tea, turning to face him fully. “Were Oliver and Mum killed on purpose? Were they targeted by someone?”