“Can you walk?” I asked.

“If you carry the guns,” she said, opening her eyes with a weak smile.

I reached into the back seat and grabbed our tactical bags.

I helped Mara out of the passenger side, her arm draped over my shoulder.

Her weight dragged against me, but she forced her feet to move.

The cold rain hit us instantly, soaking through my jacket.

We stumbled up the stone steps to the side door.

The lock was old, but before I could reach for my lockpicks, the door clicked.

It swung inward, revealing a pitch-black hallway.

The smell of old paper, damp wood, and dust rolled out to greet us.

“Natalie,” a voice whispered from the darkness.

I reached for my sidearm, my thumb flicking the safety off.

“It’s me,” the voice said.

A small flashlight clicked on, pointed toward the floor to minimize the glow.

The light illuminated a pair of worn leather boots, then traveled up to a faded canvas jacket.

My father stood there.

He looked older than he had in my memories, his hair entirely white, his face lined with deep creases.