The smoke from the explosion in Budapest still clung to my lungs as the Northvale private jet cut through the clouds toward Zurich. Inside the quiet cabin, my father's recorded voice echoed in my head, looping like a broken cassette tape. *Don't trust Elara. Don't trust Northvale.*
I glanced at Mrs. North, who was sitting across from me. Her face remained icy, as if the bloody confrontation and the ghostly warnings from the past had never happened. She was busy on her tablet, her fingers moving nimbly across the glass screen.
"Still thinking about the recording?" Elara asked, without looking up.
"How could I not be?" I countered, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears. "It was my father's voice, Elara. He mentioned you by name."
Elara placed her tablet on the table. She stared
