The interrogation room was freezing, and the handcuffs around my wrists that were looped through holes on the table jangled as I shivered. It didn’t help that my hair was still damp, or that I knew the room was purposefully cold.

I shifted on the uncomfortable metal chair, the whole thing wobbling from one leg being shorter than the others. Again—I knew it was a tactic to make me uncomfortable, throw me off my game, and yet it didn’t stop me from being annoyed about it.

I’d known if the police caught wind of me that they’d be eager have a chat, but this seemed a little extreme. Unless . . . unless this was about Chicago. I shook my head. Even if that were the case, Chicago was a plain case of self-defense. Any evidence they had would point to that.

Time ticked by, at least an hour if I had to guess, before the door opened. The overhead fluorescent light flickered as the door slammed shut. “Sorry about the wait.” A man sat down across from me, his light brown hair cropped short. He pushed his sleeves up his toned forearms. “I’m Special Agent Anderson.”

FBI? I frowned. That didn’t make any sense.

“And you are?” He prompted.

“You’d think maybe you’d know my name before you chain me to a table.” I lifted my shackled hands, showing off my short leash.

“My apologies. I just wasn’t sure which name you wanted me to call you by. I mean, there’s Dani Winters.” He set a photocopy of my ID on the table between us. “Or Danielle Sommers.” Another page landed on top of the first. “Andy Vera.” The pile grew. “Andrea Behar.” He slammed the next sheet down. “This could go on for a while so how about we go back to the beginning.” The last sheet showed a grainy photo of a five-year-old me, the word “Missing” in big block letters on the top and my name, my real name, at the bottom: Autumn Parker.

He folded his hands together and leaned toward me. “So, what I need you to tell me, Autumn, is where your father is.”

“Why? Burning his cover wasn’t enough? Getting my mother murdered wasn’t enough?”

He tapped his pointer fingers together, thoughtful. “Tell me what you know about your mother’s death.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Humor me.”

“Take these off.” The handcuffs bit into my skin as I yanked my hands up.

“I’ll take them off if you cooperate.”

I ground my teeth together. “Take them off and I’ll cooperate.”

He studied me for a second before reaching into his pocket for the key. The second they were off, I massaged the red skin around my wrists. “My mother was murdered after a corrupt cop on the NYPD blew my father’s cover. He was deep under with some drug cartel.”

He pinched his lips together, holding up one finger toward me. “Give me just one second.”

“Like I have a choice,” I muttered under my breath as he left the room. Mere minutes passed before it swung back open. Anderson had company this time. Another man, a face pulled straight out of my nightmare. I shot out of my chair and it slammed to the ground with an explosive clang. I backed into the corner, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there.

“Autumn, I need you to calm down.”

The tiled wall was unforgiving against my back. “I don’t know what kind of joke this is, but that man—” I pointed at him “—is the man who murdered my mother. I saw him.”

“You saw Officer Ellison stab your mother?” He set a stack of folders on the table.

“Nice try.” I gave him a nasty look. “She was shot.”

He nodded. “And you saw Officer Ellison shoot her?”

“He was there.” The image flashed in my mind again—blood soaking my nightgown, Mom’s cold fingers clutched in mine, and him, in the doorway. “I heard the shots and he was in the doorway.”

“So, you didn’t see him shoot your mother?”

“Stop trying to twist my words around! Why are you protecting him?”

“Autumn, where was your father? Was he there?”

“He was—” I stopped, the edges of my memory going fuzzy. “He made it there too late. Fought off the man. Made sure he didn’t hurt me too.”

“You’re sure he wasn’t in the apartment? Your parents weren’t having an argument?”

The yelling, so loud I couldn’t forget it. A man and a woman, but . . .

Anderson traded a look with Ellison, the latter of which left the room without a word. Turning back to me, he slid a red folder across the table. “I think you need to see this.”

I shouldn’t look. They had to be tricking me. That’s what they did. But the more he teased the threads of my memory, the more it felt like everything was unraveling. I picked up the chair and sat back down in it.

His hand covered the top of the folder, his fingers surprisingly hairless. “I have to warn you, this is going to be hard to see.”

I flipped the cover open and immediately slammed my eyes shut. Pictures, God there were pictures. Little evidence markers and the blood . . . I’d remembered the blood just right.

Cautiously, I let myself look. It was just as I remembered—her body in an enormous puddle of blood lying in the kitchen, the front door wide open. Bloody footprints tracked across the floor, and what was that? I spread the pictures out till I found the one I was looking for. There, outside the door was another puddle of blood.

“Whose blood is this?”

“At seven forty-three on the night of August the sixteenth, your neighbor, a Mr. Nelson, placed a call to 911 to report a domestic disturbance. It wasn’t the first one at your address, but until that point we hadn’t had anything to charge your father with. While he was on the phone with the operator, Mr. Nelson reported hearing gunshots. Officer Ellison and his partner, Officer Baker, arrived on the scene. Officer Ellison reported visualizing your mother, you on the floor next to her, and your father behind you. Officer Ellison was shot twice in the gut, Officer Baker once in the head.”

I tried picturing what he was telling me but the memory wasn’t there.

“The gun was recovered from a Dumpster three blocks over. Ballistics confirmed this same gun was used in seven different murders. Fingerprints tied the gun to your father, though he’s gone by dozens of names prior to that and since.”

From another folder, he slid a printout of a grainy photo of my father. The quality was terrible, his face barely recognizable. “David Sorley, aka The Left Hand of God. Your father. Former Navy Seal Lieutenant, one of the most lethal hitmen-for-hire in the entire world.”

“No.” I shoved the picture back at him. “You’re lying to me.”

“Syracuse—Elijah Martin, an undercover CIA operative, his throat slit in his home office.” Another folder hit the table. “Chicago—Nicholas Clarke, former Marine, garroted in his car.” A waterfall of sickening pictures fell out before me, seemingly never-ending. “Just last week, right here in NYC—Rebecca Wallace, mother of two and an NSA analyst, sliced open with—”

I burst to my feet, back to the corner, where I proceeded to throw up my entire breakfast. Even when my stomach was completely empty, dry heaves wracked my body. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. How? How was this possible?

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and quietly shuffled back to my chair. I couldn’t quite look Anderson in the face as I asked him the question that was circling my mind like a vulture. “You think I was involved with this?”

“The gun you had in your possession? The 9mm? We’ve tied it to another murder in Austin.” He leaned his elbows on the table, finger tapping his chin. “Then there’s Chicago. Nicholas Clarke wasn’t the only casualty there. I want you to tell me about what happened there.”

I folded my arms across my chest. What if the evidence didn’t prove it was self-defense? What if they were trying to prove I was his accomplice? His willing accomplice? That I’d known all along. That maybe, just maybe, he’d be spending this whole time trying to train me.

“Autumn. Look at me.” Soft brown eyes tried to cajole me. “I believe you didn’t know what was going on. It’s obvious everything here is coming as quite the shock to you. I get that. Trust me, I get that. Now, if you helped us out, I’d be willing to speak to the District Attorney on your behalf. See if we can’t cut you a deal.”

He was sweet-talking me, his words practically candy-coated. My father might not have been any person’s version of a role model, except maybe Charles Manson, but if nothing else, he’d given me the tricks I needed to survive.

I caught Anderson’s gaze as I leaned forward. “I think I need to speak to my lawyer now.”