Art agrees to speak with me while I’m back in Virginia.

The house that I grew up in is about an hour outside of Fairfax, which is where Art requests to meet. It’s at the same diner we’ve met at several times before, where the waitress knows him by name, and she doesn’t make a stink about us holding up the table for hours at a time.

I spend the afternoon with him. He feeds me pieces of information from the investigation and tries to make them sound promising. They don’t sound promising at all.

I still don’t believe what he’s telling me. Nevertheless, I continue to pursue my only hope. I plead with him to consider allowing me to contact Javi.

In the end, the result is the same.

I spend hours with him. Grilling him. Begging him. Wishing for any scrap of hope he could give me. It never comes. And eventually, he grows tired and unsympathetic.

He leaves me with the same line he always does. They will continue working on it.

The drive home is long and frustrating. I’m exhausted and I know I have to go back to Luke soon, but it’s the last thing I want to think about right now.

When I turn the knob on the front door, it’s unlocked. My palm hesitates on the handle, and I don’t remember leaving it that way. I rationalize. I can barely remember what day of the week it is, let alone basic safety precautions.

But when I step inside, I know. I know something isn’t right, even before I turn the corner and see the mess.

Someone has been in here. Someone has completely trashed the house in search of something. What, I don’t know.

My first instinct is to call the police. But then I think of Art.

This could be important. This could have something to do with my father’s disappearance.

I pull out the canister of pepper spray that I carry in my purse and walk through the house, checking to be sure whoever it is has gone.

When I’m certain that they are, I dial Art again. He answers with a sigh.

“Someone broke into the house,” I tell him. “I think they were looking for something.”

The other line is quiet for a minute, and then, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine. They aren’t here anymore.”

“You need to pack your things and leave, Isa. I will take care of it.”

“Do you think this could have something to do with…”

“I don’t know,” he tells me. “I’m turning around now. I’ll be there soon, but don’t wait for me. Just pack your things and go back to the city.”

“Okay.”

“Let me know when you get there.”

He hangs up, and I do what he says. I pack. But I can’t leave like this. I can’t leave without checking to be sure that some of my father’s possessions are still alright.

There are things everywhere, strewn all over the floor. My books have been pulled from the shelves. The photos that remain on the wall are crooked, and the ones that aren’t have shattered to the floor.

Even the photo of my father.

My hands shake as I pick up the pieces and replace them one by one. It's a long process. I save the broken knick-knacks on the floor until last. But when I move to sweep them up, something odd catches my eye.

And because of who my father was, I know exactly what it is before reality has time to sink in.

A listening device.

An icy draft crawls down my spine and settles into my shaking hands.

Someone has been listening to me.

Before I can even comprehend the full horror of my situation, I’m tearing the place apart. Searching the walls. Underneath the counters. The vents.

Things my father used to do.

By the time I have finished, it isn't only listening devices I have retrieved, but cameras too. The shockwaves have taken control of my entire body now. My heartbeat thrashes in my ears. My fingers tremble, and my lungs struggle to take in air.

It isn't the agency.

It can't be the agency.

Right?

But if not them, then who?

The cameras were in my bedroom. In my fucking bedroom. Where I changed. Where I... touched myself.

Oh god.

I think I'm going to be sick.