Haatim rested in his room, reading a book. A knock sounded at the door. He assumed it must be Dominick, coming to spar some more, and wasn't in the mood. Not after everything that had happened earlier in the day.
He considered just hiding in the dark and pretending like he wasn't inside at the moment, but then dismissed that idea. Dominick was nothing if not persistent, and Haatim had no doubt that he would pick his lock or something to find him.
Plus, he owed it to Dominick to try and explain what had happened before. Uncertainty gnawed at him—how much was he willing to talk about right now?—but he still wanted to talk to him.
With a sigh, Haatim got up from the chair and tried to stretch out his sore body. The knock came again.
"Hang on, I'm coming," he said, striding across the room and opening the door.
Rather than Dominick, his father stood there. Aram carried a folder under his arm and a pair of cokes in the other hand. They stood for a moment, just staring at each other, and then Aram held up the beverages.
"A peace offering," he said, offering one to Haatim.
He considered leaving his father out in the hall and slamming the door in his face. Right now, he didn't want to talk to Aram about anything, much less accept a peace offering from the man. His jaw ached from clenching it, and heat prickled behind his eyes.
Haatim decided not to, though. His father had betrayed his trust, and maybe done worse than that, but was still Haatim's father. He'd reached out, and it wouldn't be fair of Haatim to refuse to hear him out.
He stepped aside, unsure if he would regret this decision, and gestured for his father to come in.
"All right," he said, accepting the beverage. "We can talk."
Aram crossed the threshold, and Haatim cleared dirty clothes and trash from the two chairs next to the table. They took seats, facing each other in silence. The only sound came from each of them taking sips from their cans.
Finally, Aram said, "I wanted to apologize for lying for all these years. I couldn't speak about this life, but I should have brought you into it sooner."
"Why didn't you?"
"Too afraid of losing you," Aram said. "I believed that if I told you about this part of my life, then it would put you at risk."
"Clearly, it put me at risk anyhow," Haatim said.
Aram frowned and nodded. "Yes. I got it wrong and nearly lost you."
"What happened?"
"I attempted to make a deal with the Ninth Circle." Aram's hand tightened around the coke can, denting the aluminum with a small pop. He stared at the crumple mark as though surprised by his own grip. "At the last minute, I got cold feet and tried to back out. When the Ninth Circle found out that I had betrayed them, they grew furious. They went after you to get back at me."
"What was the deal?"
Something shifted behind Aram's eyes—a flicker, there and gone, like a door opening onto a room too dark to see into and then swinging shut. His mouth opened, and for a moment, Haatim thought his father was about to say something else entirely. The muscles in Aram's throat worked, and he looked away toward the window where the mountains were disappearing into early dusk.
"Something I'd planned to build a long-term peace," Aram said. The words came out rehearsed, careful, as though he'd practiced them. "A chance for both sides to step back."
"I thought the Council refused to make deals with demons?"
"We don't," Aram said. "These are desperate times. Our numbers have dwindled, and we don't have many of us left. We need a chance to catch our breath and rebuild before we're ready to confront the Ninth Circle again."
"So, when you went to Arizona, you weren't there working for the Council?"
Aram hesitated. His jaw worked, and he set the coke can down on the table with the care of a man trying to keep his hands steady. "No. I went of my own accord, and it proved a tremendous mistake. I never imagined that something like that might happen to you, though. You have to understand, Haatim, that every single choice I've made, I did to protect you and your sister."
His voice cracked on the word sister—barely, a hairline fracture that he covered by clearing his throat—but Haatim caught it. The grief that surfaced in that single syllable didn't match the story of a peace negotiation. It was too raw, too personal, carrying a weight that had nothing to do with politics or strategy.
"You must know that I would do anything to keep the two of you safe," Aram said, and for the first time in the conversation, his voice sounded like it belonged to a different man. Not the Council leader. Not the politician. Just a father, hollowed out by something he couldn't bring himself to name.
"The Council doesn't know?"
"They don't know any of this," Aram said. "I've worked to remedy my mistake, and I believe things are over with. But, you must understand, if they find out what I tried to do, they will kill me."
"What you did … you are a hypocrite."
"I know," Aram said, bowing his head. "But I've only made decisions for the benefit of my family and the Council."
"I'm the only person who knows?"
Aram nodded. "You hold my life in your hands."
Haatim rubbed his face in his hands and shook his head, unsure what to do.
"I will protect your secret," Haatim said after a while. His hands still shook under the table, but a part of him could understand his father's motivations. To make peace—even with the devil—to save lives couldn't be such a terrible thing, right? "But, I do want something in return."
"Anything," Aram said, visibly relieved.
"I still think you have it wrong about Abigail. I spent a lot of time with her, and she never struck me as the kind of person you seem to think she is. She saved my life."
"And I owe her for that," Aram said. "However, I've seen the truth of what she is."
"She isn't a murderer," Haatim said.
Aram handed Haatim the envelope he'd left on the table. Haatim set his drink down and opened the manila sleeve.
He closed it quickly, seeing the gruesome images from a crime scene. Body parts lay strewn about, and blood covered everything. He hesitated a second, steadied himself, and then opened it again.
Dozens of images that showed multiple body parts cut to pieces. He recognized two of the victims as Colton and Anong, the Hunters assigned to execute Abigail by the Council. Anong's eyes had been removed and her throat cut, and the expression on Colton's face … a mixture of terror and agony that made Haatim sick to his stomach.
The room tilted. He gripped the edge of the table with one hand, and the photographs trembled in the other. His mind scrambled to reconcile what he was seeing with anything he knew about the world, about Abigail, about anything at all.
He thought of her in that holding cell. The way she'd rushed forward and wrapped him in a hug so tight he couldn't breathe. The laugh she'd given when he offered to bring her books. The quiet moment after, when she'd looked away and said the company would be nice. That woman—the one who'd been afraid to be alone—had done this?
He looked at the photos again. Colton's face, frozen in a scream. Anong's empty eye sockets. The precise arrangement of severed limbs on the kitchen cutting board. This wasn't just killing. It was butchery performed with patience and care.
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Those were taken two days ago," Aram said. "Three Hunters went after Abigail to bring her back, and she murdered them all."
"They were trying to kill her. She only defended herself."
"Does this look like self-defense?" Aram asked.
Haatim glanced again at the images and couldn't help but admit how horrible they looked. He could hardly believe Abigail would do something like this, even to protect herself. But the evidence was there, glossy and undeniable beneath the fluorescent light.
He remembered the way she'd talked about Arthur. How her voice had cracked. "They blame me for everything that happened to him," she'd said, and the rawness in those words had been real. Pain like that couldn't be faked. The woman who carried that kind of grief didn't arrange body parts on a cutting board.
And yet. The photos.
"Why are you showing me this?" he said.
"Because I want you to understand," Aram said. "When Abigail was a child, something happened to her. The Cult she's been trying so hard to destroy did terrible things and changed her. I believe that she tries to do good, but an evil lives inside her that she will never escape."
"You don't know that."
"I do," Aram said. "When we first found her, as a little girl, the Council voted to execute her because of what she might grow into. Only narrowly did we decide that she be allowed to live, and even then, only because Frieda and Arthur blackmailed and coerced the Council to vote in their favor. I will never condone such actions."
"Why tell me any of this?"
"I want you to understand the truth," Aram said. "I want you to help me fix all these problems. I have made mistakes, I admit, but everything I've done was in service to the Council. Abigail is dangerous, but she trusts you. I want you to help me bring her in safely and without further incident."
Haatim hesitated, trying to sort through what his father had told him. If true, it changed everything. He couldn't detect any hint of a lie from his father.
But his father was good at lying. Months of lies about the supernatural world. Lies about Arizona. Lies about the deal with the Ninth Circle. Aram wore truth and falsehood with equal ease, and the realization made Haatim's stomach turn. How could he trust anything this man said, even when the words came wrapped in photographs?
The images in his hand made a compelling case. "You're certain that Abigail did this?"
"Colton called me and said he was on her trail, and then this happened. I don't know what other conclusions to draw from this."
"I'll need some time to think about it," Haatim said.
"I've lied to you in the past," Aram said. "And put you at risk, but never again. I want Abigail to be brought in safely."
"So you can execute her."
"Look at the people she's murdered, Haatim, and tell me their lives are worth less than hers?"
Haatim couldn't think of a good reply. Those images had burned into his memory now and made him sick to his stomach. If Abigail had caused them—and that remained a huge if—then no way could he trust her again.
However, he couldn't take things at Aram's word, either. The truth would lay somewhere in the middle, and it would be up to him to find it.
"I'll think about it," Haatim said. "But, I won't be a part of her execution."
"I promise you that she will receive full consideration and justice for everything that has happened. If we find her guilty, we will punish her, and if we find her innocent, we will find the truth. That's the best I can offer. Is justice enough?"
Haatim nodded. "All right," he said. "No more lies."
"Never again," Aram said. "I have suspended the hunt for Abigail until after Frieda's trial. We've recalled all our resources until after we decide everything regarding Frieda."
"This trial is a terrible idea," Haatim said.
"She's a loose cannon prone to rash actions and acting against the best interests of the Council. But, even then, I do have great respect for her. No one lives above our laws, and sometimes, people simply need reminding of that."
"Like you," Haatim said. "You've broken far worse rules than anything she did, and yet you want me to give you a second chance. Shouldn't she get the same?"
Aram stayed silent for a moment, head bowed, and then he nodded. "You are right. What do you want from me?"
"Give her that second chance."
"I can't call off the trial," Aram said. "Too many things are already in motion."
"But, you're the one pressing for her punishment. Just back off."
"I can request a lower reprimand. Perhaps, simple removal of her position as head of the Hunters."
"Temporarily," Haatim said. "I've seen her interacting with many of them, and she does an excellent job."
"Is that what you think fair? I can ask that she be placed on probation for a few years. It would be little more than a slap on the wrist, but would still serve to send a strong message to the other members of the Council."
Haatim thought about it, and then nodded. "Yes, that seems reasonable."
"Very well," Aram said. "That is what will happen, then."
He checked his watch and finished off the last dregs of his coke.
"I'm late for a meeting. Thank you for seeing me." His father stood.
"Will you allow me to visit Frieda?"
"It is not my decision that keeps you away. Only the Council can make such a ruling. I will bring it up with them, however. You will be able to speak to her within the week. I promise."
"All right," Haatim said, standing too.
"I will keep your secret," Haatim said.
"Thank you," Aram said. "Once all of this is over, I am hoping that we will be able to spend more time together. Things have been rather hectic these last few months with everything going on with Abigail and now Frieda, but I would like for the chance to reacquaint myself with my son."
"Me too," Haatim said. "Everything has just been so … crazy."
"It is nearly over. Things will go back to normal soon."
Haatim chuckled. "What is normal?"
Aram smiled, and it was the first time Haatim had seen his father smile in a long time. It looked good on him, transforming him into a completely different person.
"I suppose we can make a new normal. Together."
"I'd like that."
"I'm so glad that you're here now. With you here, we can make the Council great again."
"And no more lies?"
"Never again," Aram said.
Haatim held out his hand so that they could shake, but Aram stepped in and gave him a hug instead. "I missed you, my son," he said. "I love you."
Then he left, leaving Haatim standing in the center of the room.
The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed pressed in from every direction. He should have felt relieved. The conversation had gone well—better than he'd expected. His father had opened up, admitted fault, agreed to protect Frieda, and promised a fresh start.
So why did his chest feel like someone had poured concrete into it?
Haatim went to the bathroom and gripped the edges of the sink. The face in the mirror looked like his own but older, as though the last hour had carved new lines around his eyes. He splashed cold water on his face, once, twice, three times, until the shock of it steadied his breathing. He dried off with a towel that smelled like industrial soap and returned to the main room.
The manila envelope lay on the table where he'd set it down during the negotiation about Frieda's sentence. His father hadn't asked for it back. The photographs were still inside.
He sat on the edge of his bed and opened the envelope again. The first image showed the kitchen. He made himself look at it. Really look. Not flinch away, not close the sleeve and pretend the world was still simple.
Colton's body. What remained of it. The precise cuts, the arrangement. Someone had taken their time.
And then he thought of Abigail's hands. Small hands, calloused from years of training. The same hands that had held his in Raven's Peak when the world was falling apart. The same hands that had gripped his arms when she hugged him in that cell, hard enough to leave bruises, because she'd been so relieved to see someone—anyone—who didn't want her dead.
Could those hands do this?
He thought about the train ride to Switzerland. Hours in the dining car while the Alps scrolled past the windows. She'd been telling him about Arthur's training—how the old man made her run obstacle courses in the dark until she could navigate by sound alone. Her voice had been light, almost fond, and then she'd mentioned the nights afterward, when Arthur would sit with her and tell stories about the Council's earliest days.
Midsentence, her voice had cracked. Not dramatically, not with tears, but a small fracture that she'd tried to cover by clearing her throat and turning toward the window. "They blame me for everything that happened to him," she'd said, and the rawness in those words had been unmistakable. He'd watched the mountain reflections slide across the glass and hadn't known what to say, so he'd said nothing, and they'd sat together in the quiet until she'd turned back with a small, tired smile and changed the subject.
The woman who carried that kind of grief didn't arrange body parts on a cutting board.
And yet. The photos.
He didn't know. And that was the worst part. A week ago, he would have said no without hesitation. A week ago, the answer was simple.
Now, nothing was simple. His father dealt with demons. The Council he'd thought righteous executed people for political convenience. Abigail might be a murderer, or she might be a victim, or she might be both.
And there was the other thing—the moment during his father's confession that he kept circling back to. The way Aram's voice had broken on the word sister. Such a small crack, so quickly covered, but it had carried a weight that didn't belong to a story about peace negotiations. Aram had been talking about protecting his family, and something in his voice had sounded less like a politician discussing strategy and more like a man carrying a wound he couldn't show anyone.
What if the deal wasn't about peace at all? What if it was about something far more personal?
But that didn't make sense. Nida had been dead for years. Whatever grief Aram still carried, it couldn't have driven him to—
Haatim stopped the thought before it could form completely. He wasn't ready for wherever that line of thinking led. Not tonight. Not with Colton's dead eyes staring up at him from the photographs and Abigail's laugh still echoing in his memory and his father's cracked voice playing on loop in his head.
Haatim reached for his phone. Her contact was still there—"Abigail C."—with the number she'd given him months ago, before any of this started. He opened a new message. The cursor blinked on the empty line.
He typed: I believe you.
His thumb hovered over send. The number was disconnected. Had been since she'd fled. The message would vanish into whatever void swallowed undeliverable texts, and she would never know he'd tried.
He deleted the words. Typed again: Are you safe?
Same dead end. Same empty line leading nowhere.
He deleted that too and sat there with the blank message screen casting pale light across his face.
Then he pulled up his father's contact. The photos lay fanned across the bedspread. Colton's frozen agony. Anong's empty sockets. And somewhere beyond these mountains, Abigail was running. Alone. Maybe afraid. Maybe already beyond saving.
If he did nothing, his father would send Hunters after her eventually. Trained killers who wouldn't blink. She might fight back, and more people would die. Or she might not fight back, and she would die instead.
If he helped bring her in—on his terms, under his conditions—at least she'd be alive. At least there would be a chance. At least he could look her in the eye afterward and explain.
He typed: I'll help you find her when the time comes. But she comes in alive. Due process. A real hearing. Not an execution.
He sent it before he could change his mind.
The message delivered. Then read. Three dots pulsed at the bottom of the screen, disappeared, pulsed again.
His father's reply: Agreed. You have my word.
Haatim set the phone on the nightstand. The screen went dark. Next to it sat the envelope with its bent corner. Two objects on a nightstand in a dim room. One containing evidence of what Abigail might have done. The other containing proof of what he'd just agreed to do.
He went to the window and pressed his forehead against the cold glass. The mountains were invisible in the darkness, just a black absence where the sky should have been. Snow had begun to fall, the flakes visible only where they passed through the light spilling from the lower floors.
Somewhere out there, past the snow and the switchbacks and the borders he couldn't see, Abigail was spending another night wondering if she'd live to see morning. She didn't know that the person who'd promised they'd get through this together had just texted his father to say he'd help bring her in.
The thought sat in his chest like a stone.
He pulled the curtain shut, lay down on the bed without undressing, and stared at the ceiling. He told himself this was the right choice. The responsible choice. The one that kept the most people alive. He told himself that when this was over and the truth came out, she would understand.
None of it helped him sleep.
When sleep finally came, hours later, it brought no rest. He dreamed of empty eye sockets and the sound of someone laughing—warm and unguarded, the way Abigail had laughed when he'd offered her books. The two sounds overlapped and refused to separate, playing on a loop until his alarm pulled him back into the gray morning light.
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