“You have a method of contact for the Huntsmen, do you not?” Gabriel asked as he brought in the tea.

“Ioan gave me one.” Ioan was the leader of the local Cŵn Annwn.

“Is it a complicated process?” Rose asked.

“Kind of. It needs to be done while standing in a forest clearing flooded with moonlight. Then I face east, chant a few lines in Welsh, and, at the stroke of midnight, dial Ioan’s cell phone number.” I reached for a cookie. “Or I could just call him.”

“Call,” Gabriel said. “We can have lunch in town and then meet with him.”

I paused with the cookie at my lips and then said, “I should take Ricky to see Ioan. He’s their champion. It’s like you and the Cainsville Tylwyth Teg.”

“She’s right,” Rose said. “This Ioan is much more likely to talk with Ricky there.”

Gabriel gave a curt nod. “Understood.”

“I’d totally go for lunch, though,” I said. “If that offer still stands.”

His jaw worked, as if ready to say, No, it does not. I’d rejected an overture. He would retreat behind his wall. That’s how it always went. But after a moment he said, “Of course it does.”

Lunch with Gabriel went well enough. We talked about work. Safe and easy conversation. After it, he suggested I go visit my father in prison. I hate that. No, let me be clearer. I love seeing Todd; I hate seeing him in there.

Todd Larsen has spent the best years of his life in a maximum-security facility for crimes he didn’t commit. I hear about stuff like that on the news. I see it as a plot in books and movies. But until I found out about my dad, I’d never really thought about what it means. My father was a year younger than I am now when he went to jail. He has slept in a cell for twenty-two years. Eaten prison food for twenty-two years. Dealt with whatever horrors befall a good-looking young prisoner. Dealt with whatever shit befalls a convicted serial killer.

I’ve heard he spent a lot of that time in solitary, and while part of me is glad he was shielded from the other prisoners, at least temporarily, I cannot actually fathom what that would be like, either, living for weeks with little to no human contact. He tells me it hasn’t been so bad for him—I suspect the Cŵn Annwn had something to do with that—but the fact remains that he has spent half his lifetime in prison, wrongly convicted. I’ve known that for months now and yet I can’t get him out. Some days, the sheer frustration threatens to drive me mad.

We sat on our respective sides of the Plexiglas barrier. There was a speaker between us, meaning anyone around could eavesdrop on our conversation. Todd didn’t care. He was just happy to have me there, and that was why I kept coming, as much as it hurt.

Todd and I discussed books, as we often did, sharing a love of mysteries. And, yes, in my mind I still refer to him as Todd. I had a dad growing up, and it feels disloyal to grant that title to someone else, however deserving. But I do call Todd “Dad” to his face because I know how much it means to him.

As he talked with me, I could see him relax. Where Pamela looks every one of her forty-five years, my father could pass for late thirties. The age is there, in crow’s feet and faint lines around his mouth, but his blond hair is untouched by gray, and while his build is slight, he obviously spends time in the prison gym.

“So I’m guessing a PI impersonating a cop is out of the question,” he said, about a private-eye novel he was reading.

“Yep,” I said. “Although, if someone mistakes me for a police detective because of how I dress that day? Or my manner, or my choice of words? That’s fair game. I can’t really pull it off, though. I don’t have the right look, as someone loves to remind me.”

Todd glanced at Gabriel. “Much easier for you, I suspect.”

“True,” Gabriel said. “It’s hardly my fault if my size leads some to draw the conclusion that I work in a different area of the law. Or, occasionally, on the other side of it, which can be even more useful.”

Todd laughed, and we continued dissecting the book until the visit was down to the last ten minutes.

Gabriel stepped in then and provided an update on Todd’s appeal, admitting we hadn’t yet been able to find Imogen Seale. Imogen was the one person who knew my parents hadn’t committed the first pair of murders, but she’d been on the run for months now.

“Our prospects aren’t as encouraging as I’d like,” he said, “but proving innocence is difficult when innocence is not the case for all parties.” He chose his words with care, given the semi-public nature of the setting. “I will not ask you to change your mind about turning against her. We’ve been through that often enough.”

I shifted in my seat.

Todd’s gaze met mine. “I can’t, Liv. I’m sorry. She’s still the woman who went to prison so our child could walk.”

“Then she should have taken the fall and left me my father.”

“I wouldn’t have allowed that.”

“Bullshit. The DNA was hers.”

Gabriel cleared his throat, reminding me to watch my words.

I looked at Todd. “I want you out.”

“I will get out, eventually. You don’t need your daddy anymore, Liv. You’re doing fine. If the appeal doesn’t work, I will tell the truth. That’s our deal. But you agreed to let me try it my way.”

“I didn’t agree. You refused to do anything else.”