"The woman who owned that knife was Victoria O’Reilly, mistress of Marco Conan."
His voice was calm. Too calm. Like he hadn’t just shattered the floor beneath my feet with a single sentence. I blinked at him, still holding the knife, suddenly aware of how small it felt in my hand now, like it belonged to someone else.
Scott let go of my elbow and stepped back, folding his arms across his chest. His posture was relaxed, almost detached, but his eyes were sharp, calculating every twitch in my face.
"We ran a DNA test an hour ago using a secure sample," he said. "Your name isn't Wilson. It's Conan. Kendra Conan. And your father has been looking for you for a very long time."
The room tilted.
I dropped onto the couch like the wind had been knocked out of me. I wasn’t sure if I was breathi
