My phone rang at seven that evening. I was at the apartment desk reviewing the intelligence summary Aria had sent through after the briefing, and when I saw my father’s name on the screen I felt the small involuntary shift that his calls had been producing in me since the early days of my integration, not dread exactly, but the particular alertness of someone who loves a person and is never entirely certain which version of the conversation they are about to have.“Dad,” I answered.“Adele.” His voice was tight in a way I had learned to read accurately, the barely managed tightness of a man who was frightened and was trying not to sound it. “I need to talk to you about something that happened today.”I sat up straighter and pulled my notepad toward me. “Okay, tell me everything,” I said.He told me that two men had appeared at his workplace that morning, asking his colleagues questions about him in the spaces between meetings and at the coffee machine, the kind of approach that was de
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