Chapter 42
The Space Between Lies
Elara
Halldórsson doesn’t speak for a long moment after that.
The bunker hums again, low and mechanical, vibrating faintly through the bench beneath me, through my bones, through everything I thought I understood about the world before today.
My thoughts feel scrambled, like someone shook my skull and forgot to put things back in the right order.
My father is alive. Lucan betrayed me. Or didn’t.
Or did something worse. Or something kinder.
Everything overlaps, contradictory and sharp, and I don’t know where to stand without cutting myself open on it.
“I looked after you,” Halldórsson says finally.
The words are quiet. Not defensive. Not proud. Just… factual.
I lift my head slowly, my neck aching with the effort. “What?”
“When your father disappeared,” he continues, voice steady, grounded, like he’s anchoring himself so I don’t drift completely apart.
“I looked after you. Not officially. Not in any way that shows up on paper. But I checked in. I made sure you were safe. That your mother had support. That there were eyes on your life, even when you didn’t know it. ”
Something hot and bitter rises in my chest. “You watched us fall apart.”
“I watched,” he says, and there’s no attempt to soften it, “because that was all I was allowed to do.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless, the sound scraping my throat raw.
“My mother barely got out of bed for months,” I say.
The words pour out before I can stop them, before I can decide how much of myself I want to bleed into this room.
“She stopped living for months. She stopped laughing. She stopped being my mom. And I—” My voice cracks.
I swallow hard. “I learned how to be quiet. How not to need things. Because needing things just made it worse.”
Halldórsson doesn’t interrupt. He lets the silence stretch, heavy and respectful.
“He chose his career,” I continue, anger flaring now, bright and consuming because it’s easier than the grief underneath it.
“He chose the wrong path. He chose whatever the hell this is over us. Over me. And for what?” I laugh again, louder this time, hysteria threading through it.
“Some stupid formulas? Some fucking equations?”
“I understand your anger, but they’re not stupid formulas,” Halldórsson says carefully.
I round on him, the words like fuel on fire. “I don’t care.”
“They’re highly sought after,” he continues, undeterred. “They’re a cornerstone in certain sectors of the black market. Chemical applications that—”
“I don’t care!” I shout, the sound ricocheting off concrete and steel. My hands curl into fists so tight my nails bite into my palms. “Who leaves their kid? Who lets their child think they’re dead? Who lets their wife rot in grief because it’s more convenient than telling the truth?”
Halldórsson’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t justify it. That almost makes it worse.
“He believed disappearing was the only way to keep you safe from what he rolled into,” he says quietly.
I shake my head violently. “No. That’s what cowards tell themselves.”
The anger doesn’t burn out. It feeds on itself, fueled by years of unanswered questions, by every birthday candle blown out with a wish I never admitted out loud, by every night I lay awake convinced I could hear him coming home.
I stand up again, pacing now, the small space barely able to contain the storm inside me.
“And now?” I demand. “Now he suddenly cares?”
Halldórsson exhales through his nose. “He always cared.”
“That’s not caring,” I snap. “That’s control.”
He watches me for a moment, then nods once. “Yes.”
The word lands heavier than denial ever could.
“There’s more,” he says.
My stomach drops. “Of course there is.”
“Your father is the one who put the hit out on you.”
The room seems to tilt again, my balance faltering as if the floor has shifted under my feet. “What!?”
“It wasn’t meant to kill you,” Halldórsson says quickly, as if anticipating the panic clawing its way up my throat. “The two men who came to your house weren’t there to execute you. They were there to transport you. To bring you to your father’s hideout.”
I stare at him, my mind refusing to cooperate. “You’re lying.”
“He was afraid,” Halldórsson continues. “Afraid because the threats said they’d kill his daughter if he didn’t do what the threat implied.”
“And Vapor imposed this threat?” I ask, dread pooling in my chest even before the answer comes.
Halldórsson meets my eyes.
“Yes.”
“I can’t possibly believe that,” I say, my voice shaking. “He wouldn’t threaten my father. He was after whoever put the hit on me. He—he saved me. My father must have tons of enemies who’d be able to do that.”
“Elara, please listen.”
I shake my head, backing away as if distance might untangle this.
I feel hollow suddenly, like something vital has been scooped out of my chest and left empty. “He wouldn’t do that,” I repeat weakly. “He wouldn’t threaten to kill me.”
“He has,” Halldórsson says. “He just hasn’t finished the job.”
The thought somehow scrapes me hollow.
“I’m sorry,” he continues, “he is not the man you want him to be.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My thoughts loop back on themselves, memories rearranging, reframing, every moment now suspect. Was he protecting me? Or isolating me? Was the hunt real? Or theater?
“He never let anyone else near me,” I say slowly. “He said he was hunting the one responsible. He said—”
“He said what he needed to say,” Halldórsson finishes.
The silence that follows is thick, oppressive.
Finally, he turns toward the ladder. “We need to leave.”
My legs hesitate before following, my gaze lingering on the bunker, the table, the walls, the place that held my fear and my strange, unwanted sense of safety all at once. Halldórsson climbs first, steady and efficient, offering a hand when I falter. I take it without comment.
The hatch closes behind us with a heavy finality.
The air outside feels unreal; sharp, colder, louder. Halldórsson scans everything as we move, alert, cautious. The light is gone, the dark closing in on us.
I lean against the bark of a tree, exhausted, my anger drained into something quieter and more dangerous. “Where are we going?”
He turns to face me fully now.
“I will take you to your father,” he says.
My head snaps up. “What?”
“He’s waiting for you,” Halldórsson continues. “And there’s something else you need to know before we go.”
My heart pounds. “What.”
“Vapor is there too.”
“He’s… there?” I whisper.
“He’s a captive,” Halldórsson says.
I shake my head, stepping back. “No. How is that even possible? You’ve chased him for years, and never caught him once—” I stop, my voice shaking. “I need to speak to him. I need to hear it from him.”
Halldórsson studies me for a long moment. “You still believe him.”
“I believe he didn’t do this,” I say fiercely. “I believe what he told me. I believe he wouldn’t hurt me like that.”
“And if you’re wrong?” Halldórsson asks quietly.
“Then I’ll face that,” I say. “But I won’t let you turn him into a villain without hearing him.”