“I saw the picture of you in your room.”

Of course. Duh.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. It’s fine that he knows. No matter what he thinks, I’m okay. I can be okay no matter whatanyonethinks.

“Did you know who I was the whole time?” he goes on.

“I knew the second we met when I was seventeen.”

He widens his knees as I reach the edge of the bed, allowing me to step in closer. It’s an intimate provision, but I know he’s allowing me this near so that I can show him the tattoo. So I move into his space and then turn around, lifting my shirt just high enough that he’ll be able to see.

A thin, raised scar and six words above it:Never more than you can handle.

I don’t jump when I feel his fingers, warm and gentle, tracing the scar. I let him take that liberty, touching me, outlining the scrolling font. I don’t jump either when he lifts his other hand and holds me gently by the hips, turning me around until I’m facing him once more.

I reach out, slowly at first, tentatively, until I see that he’s not going to stop me. Then I reach around the back of his neck, feeling along his hairline until I find it: the thin white line he showed me that day, the one he got from trying to cut his own hair as a child. I run my thumb over the spot, only noticeable because I remember where it is, as his grasp on me tightens, his fingers digging into my hips as his eyes hold me captive.

We know each other’s scars.

“You’re bruised,” he says, his eyes narrowing on the strip of stomach still exposed as I hold my shirt up with my free hand. I let the hem fall.

“Yes,” I say. “From the windowsill.”

“Take some ibuprofen.”

“I will.”

He nods. Then he points to his desk chair. “Sit. What did you want to talk about?”

…That’s it?

He’s not going to say anything else?

A wave of relief and gratitude hit me, so potent that I once again have to squeeze my eyes shut to fight off the tears. “I think we need to talk to Rocco again,” I say, taking a seat in the desk chair. It’s one of those fancy-pants ergonomic ones, the kind that offers lumbar support and a whole bunch of other nice crap.

Aiden nods. “Okay,” he says. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Why?”

“Because.” I run my fingers through my hair, sighing. “I can’t stand this dead end. Matilda still hasn’t gotten in touch with details about Thomas Freese’s suicide.” Something sharp and mournful plucks at me when I say this, and I push away the thought that my father really could be dead. “Maybe if we asked Rocco, we could somehow set up a meeting with his brother. Lionel has to know something, doesn’t he?” The question sounds desperate.

Aiden’s brows furrow as he stares absently at the floor, a pensive expression on his face. He’s clearly miles away despite sitting not three feet from me. When he finally speaks, his words are thoughtful, like he’s still piecing them together. “Which mystery are you trying to solve right now?” he says.

I frown at him. “The only mystery currently in our life. Sandra von Meller.”

He shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says. “That’s not right. There are two main mysteries we’re dealing with right now. Aren’t there?” He seems to be talking partly to himself. “I agree that they’re probably connected somehow, but there are definitely two. So which one is it?” He redirects his attention to me. “Are you trying to find your father, or are you trying to find who killed Sandra?”

I blink at him as my racing thoughts shudder to a stop.

He’s…right. He’s completely correct.

Those are two different questions.

And I’ve been trying to answer both of them—at the same time and with the same bits of knowledge we’ve been able to find so far.

But that’s not going to work, is it? I’m missing in-depth details from both mysteries because I keep throwing out the tidbits that don’t answer both questions.

“Like a woman interviewing for two separate jobs in two separate fields,” I say to myself, trying to straighten these thoughts out. “She prepares for the job interviews by studyingonlythe questions that she’s likely to receive frombothinterviewers. And in the end she doesn’t get either job, because she didn’t prepare for the specifics of either one.”

“Yes,” Aiden says, leaning back and looking satisfied. “Exactly. So I’ll ask again: Which mystery are you trying to solve? Which question are you trying to answer?”