It had been three years since I escaped that place. But trauma had a way of making things unforgettable.
I remembered the way Jonas joked about locking me there when we were in our sophomore year. The narrow halls that echoed every scream. The stale air that tasted like rust and dirt and death.
And I imagined my father. Locked in the furthest cell, barely breathing, but still alive.
I prayed he still was.
The quadruplets had confirmed he was there. They’d gotten some info—pulled teeth from Marguerite’s family, metaphorically speaking. Or maybe literally. I didn’t ask. I didn’t care.
All that mattered was getting him out.
Kingsley and Kyle weren’t with us—they were holed up in the east wing, trying to rework our entire security system now that we knew the gorgon wasn’t just a one-time
