Maisie
A small laugh of disbelief escaped me. "You're lying. My father was—is the kindest person I know."
But fear knotted in my stomach, as the bond flared in my chest, ringing Soren's words as true.
I shook my head.
No.
No, that wasn't possible.
Dad couldn't have been an assassin.
My father braided Lana's hair because Mom always pulled too hard. He knew exactly how much cinnamon went into pancakes because he made them every Sunday. He sat us on his lap and told stories where kindness won and cruelty lost. He kissed scraped knees. He cried during sad endings.
He loved us. He loved Mom.
He had warm brown eyes that always looked a little sleepy when he smiled.
How could a man like that sneak into a child's bedroom with a knife? How could a man like that be a killer?
"Two truths can co-exist," Jericho said, his gaze heavy, and perhaps it was the quality to his tone as he spoke, but I knew, knew it in my gut, that he was speaking about more than just my father.
