But his eyes were the same sharp, piercing blue.

“Get inside,” Raymond said, stepping back to let us pass.

I pushed Mara ahead of me and closed the door, locking the deadbolt behind us.

The house was freezing.

Raymond led us down the hallway into a small study.

A single oil lamp sat on a heavy mahogany desk, casting long, dancing shadows on the book-lined walls.

Mara collapsed onto a leather sofa, groaning as she shifted her weight.

Raymond set his flashlight down and went to her, his hands moving with practiced efficiency.

“She has a puncture wound,” I said, my voice cold.

“Clean it, then we talk.”

My father looked up at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret and relief.

“I thought you were dead, Natalie,” he said softly.

“I thought they had broken you.”

“They tried,” I said, keeping my distance.

“Your wife tried.”

He winced at the mention of Caroline, his hands pausing for a fraction of a second.

“Caroline was always a believer,” he said, returning to Mara’s wound.

“She believed the project was the only way to secure the country’s future.”