Mr. Lethon looked so heartbroken at his daughter's betrayal—betrayal of me, of him—that for a fleeting moment, I considered patting his shoulder, offering the usual hollow reassurance that everything would be fine, that this was simply the stuff of life.
The fickleness of human nature was no strange phenomenon to me. People's loyalties shifted with the seasons, sometimes without warning, and more often without shame. But I swallowed that impulse, letting out a tired sigh instead.
Sliding into one of the chairs opposite his desk, I crossed one leg over the other, resting my elbow lazily on the armrest and my cheek against my palm. I studied the two of them—father and daughter—locked in their silent standoff.
"So why did you bring me here?" I asked finally, breaking the uncomfortable quiet.
It was directed at Levina, and the way she startled—like a guilty child caught sneaking sweets—told me she had nearly forgotten I was in the room. She shrugged, all casual defiance.
