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Scarlet, nearly hitting his head on the low oak beam that spanned the ceiling.
    The world spun. Scarlet almost didn’t recognize him—it had been years since she’d seen him, but it could have been decades for how much he had aged. A beard was taking over his normally clean-shaven jawline. His hair was matted on one side, sticking up straight on the other. He was pale and gaunt, like he hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks.
    “Dad?”
    He clutched a blue flight jacket to his chest.
    “What are you doing here?” She surveyed the chaos again, heart still pounding. “What are you doing ?”
    “There’s something here,” he said, his voice rough and unused. “She’s hidden something.” He peered down at the jacket, then tossed it onto the bed. Kneeling, he started digging through the box again. “I need to find it.”
    “Find what? What are you talking about?”
    “She’s gone,” he whispered. “She’s not coming back. She won’t ever know and I … I have to find it. I have to know why.”
    The smell of cognac swirled through the air and Scarlet’s heart hardened. She didn’t know how he’d found out about his mother’s disappearance, but for him to just assume all hope was lost, so easily, so quickly, and to think he would be entitled to a single thing that belonged to her, after he’d abandoned them both. To go so many years without a single comm, only to show up drunk and start tearing through her grandmother’s things—
    Scarlet had the sudden urge to call the police, except she was mad at them too.
    “Get out! Get out of our house!”
    Unfazed, he started to pile the mishmash of clothes back into the box.
    Face burning, Scarlet rounded the bed and grabbed his arm, trying to yank him to his feet. “Stop it!”
    He hissed and fell back onto the old wooden floorboards. He scurried away from her as he would from a rabid dog, clutching his arm. His gaze was stark madness.
    Scarlet drew back, surprised, before planting clenched fists on her hips. “What’s wrong with your arm?”
    He didn’t answer, just kept nursing the arm against his chest.
    Setting her jaw, Scarlet stomped toward him and grabbed his wrist. He yelped and tried to pull away, but she held firm, shoving his sleeve up to his elbow. Scarlet gasped and let go, but the arm continued to hang in midair, like he’d forgotten to retract it.
    The skin was covered in burn marks. Each one a perfect circle and placed in a neat, perfect row. Row upon row upon row, circling his forearm from wrist to elbow, some shining with wrinkled scar tissue, others blackened and blistering. And on his wrist, a scab where his ID chip had once been implanted.
    Her stomach turned.
    Back against the wall, her father buried his face in the mattress, away from Scarlet, away from the burns.
    “Who did this to you?”
    His arm fell, curling against his stomach. He said nothing.
    Scarlet pushed herself off the wall and ran to the bathroom in the hallway. She returned a moment later with a tube of ointment and a roll of bandages. Her father hadn’t moved.
    “They made me,” he whispered, his hysteria fading.
    Scarlet eased his arm away from his stomach and began to dress the wound, as tenderly as she could despite her shaking hands. “Who made you do what?”
    “I couldn’t get away,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “They asked so many questions and I didn’t know. I didn’t know what they wanted. I tried to answer them, but I didn’t know…”
    Scarlet glanced up from her work as her father tilted his head toward her and stared blankly across the tousled blankets. Tears had pooled in his eyes. Her father—crying. It was almost more shocking than the burns. Her chest clamped and she froze, the bandage wrapped halfway up his forearm. She realized that she did not know this sad, broken man. This was only a shell of her father, her charismatic and selfish and worthless father.
    Where anger and hatred had flared before, there was now an aching