Bobby’s breath caught in his throat.
He stared at the woman on his porch, unable to speak, unable to think. His brain felt like it had short-circuited.
“Lyra?” he whispered.
She smiled. “Took you long enough.”
He stumbled back a step, his hands shaking. “No. No, that’s not possible. Bob said—he said you were dead.”
“Clearly,” she said, stepping over the threshold like a casual visitor, “he was wrong.”
Behind her, XX-66 didn’t move. It just stood there, silent and still, as if the appearance of someone it had supposedly helped destroy meant nothing.
“Why—why didn’t it stop you?” Bobby asked, voice hoarse.
Lyra’s eyes flicked to the robot. “Because it was told not to.”
Bobby’s heart skipped. “Told… by who?”
“You know who.”
Her voice dropped. Soft, almost sad. But underneath—steel.
