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She saw the monitor. A satellite image, grainy and blue-shifted. Then a face. Older. Bearded. But the eyes—her own eyes, the same shade of tired green—looked back at her.

The red light on the camera bloomed.

“You are today.” He was already walking, expecting her to follow. “The desk just got a tip. Someone claiming to have evidence of a British journalist still alive in the region. They won’t talk to anyone but ‘the correspondent’s daughter.’ They’re patching through a video feed. You’ll ask the questions. You’ll be live on the Six .”

“Thea,” the anchor in London said, “we have a extraordinary development. A man claiming to be your father, correspondent Daniel Marsh, is joining us now. Can you confirm his identity?”

“Prove it. Tell me what you said to me the night you left.”