The dining room table was long enough to land a plane on.

Vesper sat in the middle, isolated. She was wearing a pink dress that Victoria had picked out. It was three sizes too big and out of style by a decade. She looked like a child playing dress-up.

Archibald sat at the head. Arthur at the foot.

Victoria tapped her wine glass. "So, Cassandra. Tell us. Did you finish high school? Or were you too busy turning tricks for meth?"

"Victoria!" Arthur slammed his hand on the table.

"I'm just asking what we're all thinking," Victoria said, swirling her wine. She looked at Vesper. "Do you even know what fork to use?"

Vesper picked up the salad fork for the main course. She held it like a shovel. She chewed with her mouth open.

Archibald looked away in disgust. "An animal. A disgrace."

"She needs time, Father," Eleanor whispered, her eyes wet.

"She needs a kennel," Victoria laughed. She turned to the waiter and spoke in rapid, fluent French. "Bring me another bottle. This one tastes like vinegar. And make sure the girl doesn't steal the silverware."

She smirked at Vesper. "Sorry. I forgot you don't speak civilized languages."

Vesper put down her fork. The metal clinked against the china. She had intended to play the broken fool for weeks, to lull them into a false sense of security. But Victoria's cruelty, her father's calculation, Archibald's disdain-it was a cage she had to rattle. It was time to stop playing the victim and start playing the game.

She wiped her mouth. She looked up. The fear was gone.

"Actually," Vesper said. Her French was perfect. Not the Parisian French Victoria learned in boarding school, but the guttural, rhythmic slang of the Marseille docks. "The wine is vinegar because it was corked. You can tell by the smell of wet cardboard. Just like you can tell that Cartier bracelet is a fake by the way the light hits the bevels."

Silence slammed into the room. The waiter froze.

Victoria's mouth fell open. "What did you say?"

Vesper switched to English. Her voice was cool, bored. "The refraction index is wrong. It's glass. High-quality glass, but glass. I'm guessing Liam's investments aren't doing so well?"

Liam choked on his water. His face went pale. He had been siphoning money from the wedding fund to pay gambling debts.

Archibald turned his head slowly. He looked at Vesper. Really looked at her.

Victoria stood up, her face red. She grabbed her wine glass and threw the contents at Vesper.

Vesper didn't jump. She leaned two inches to the left. The red wine sailed past her ear and splashed onto Mrs. Higgins' apron.

"Too slow," Vesper said. "On the street, you'd be dead."

Arthur stared at her. He wasn't angry. He was intrigued.

"Enough!" Archibald roared.

He grabbed his heavy ebony cane. In a fit of senile rage, he swung it across the table, aiming for Vesper's head.

Eleanor screamed.

Vesper didn't duck. She raised her left hand.

Thwack.

She caught the cane. Her palm stung, but her grip was iron. She stopped the heavy wood inches from her face.

She looked down the length of the cane, straight into Archibald's eyes.

"I don't like being threatened," Vesper said softly. "Grandfather."

She twisted her wrist. She yanked the cane from the old man's weak grip.

She set it gently on the table.

"May I be excused?" Vesper stood up. "I've lost my appetite."

She walked out of the room. Her back was straight.

Upstairs, in her room, she locked the door. She leaned against it, exhaling sharply. She had shown too much. She had let the mask slip. It was a calculated risk, but a risk nonetheless.

She walked to the bed. Someone had been in her room.

On her pillow, there was a folded piece of paper.

She opened it.

Your accent is Lyonnais, not Marseille. Nice try. - H.B.

The scream came from the study.

Vesper was in the hallway, heading to the kitchen for water. She froze.

"Father! Breathe! Breathe!" Arthur's voice.

Vesper ran.

She burst into the study. Archibald was on the floor, clutching his chest. His face was turning purple.

"Call 911!" Eleanor was sobbing in the corner.

"He's not breathing!" Arthur yelled.

Vesper pushed past him. She knelt beside the old man. She checked his carotid artery. Nothing.

Cardiac arrest.

She had a choice. Let him die. Chaos would ensue. The police would swarm. Harding would use the confusion to get to her.

Or save him. And reveal that she knew exactly what she was doing.

She ripped Archibald's shirt open. buttons flew across the room.

She interlaced her fingers. She positioned her palms over his sternum.

Push. Push. Push.

"Get the AED!" Vesper shouted. It wasn't a request. It was a command.

The butler scrambled to the wall cabinet.

Vesper compressed the chest. One hundred beats per minute. Two inches deep. She felt the ribs creak and then a distinct crack under her hands. She didn't falter. Perfect control was a luxury. Survival was the goal.

The butler handed her the pads. She slapped them on.

"Clear!"

Zap. Archibald's body arched.

She went back to compressions. Sweat dripped from her nose. Her wounded shoulder screamed in protest.

"Come on, you old bastard," she gritted out.

A gasp. A ragged, wet cough.

Archibald's eyes fluttered open.

The door banged open. Dr. Thorne, the concierge doctor, rushed in with a medical bag.

He saw Vesper. He saw the rhythm of her hands.

"Stop," Thorne said. He checked the pulse. "He's back. Stable."

He looked at Vesper. "Where did you learn to do that? That was... brutally effective."

Vesper sat back on her heels. She wiped the sweat from her forehead. She saw Arthur staring at her. She saw the suspicion.

"I... you learn things on the street," Vesper panted. "When you don't have insurance, you learn to be your own ambulance."

"That wasn't TV," Thorne muttered. "You saved his life, even if you cracked a rib. Most people hesitate."

"Well done," a deep voice said from the doorway.

Harding Bishop walked in. He was wearing a dark suit. He looked like the grim reaper's handsome brother.

He walked over to Vesper. He reached down and took her hand.

"Let me help you up," he said.

He pulled her to her feet. He didn't let go. His thumb rubbed against the inside of her palm. He felt the ridge of tough skin below her fingers. He felt the callous on her trigger finger.

He leaned in close. His breath was warm on her ear.

"Gun calluses," Harding whispered. "Did you do a lot of shooting in the homeless shelter, Cassandra?"

Vesper yanked her hand away. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"I worked in a kitchen," she lied. "Shoveling ice, scrubbing industrial pans."

Harding smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Of course. I'll have the lab check what kind of scrubbing creates friction patterns consistent with a Sig Sauer P226."

Archibald was loaded onto a stretcher. As they wheeled him out, the old man turned his head. He looked at Vesper.

There was no hatred in his eyes anymore. There was calculation.

Harding pulled out his phone. He dialed a number.

"Forensics," Harding said, staring at Vesper. "Get a team to the study. I want prints from the door handle. Priority one."

Vesper paced her room. Two hours. That's how long a priority fingerprint match took.

She pulled the vent cover off the wall. She retrieved her micro-terminal.

"Cipher," she typed. "They're running my prints from the study. They'll match me to Vesper Vale. I need a fix."

Cipher: Negative. Harding has a localized firewall on his mobile lab. I can't get in unless someone plugs a physical drive into their server.

Vesper cursed. She was trapped.

Cipher: Plan B. I can't get in remotely, but the drive is loaded with a worm. It will replace your prints in the national database with Cassandra Sterling's juvenile records. It needs to run for thirty seconds. I can't change the result, but I can change the source.

Vesper: So I have to break in.

She didn't have four hours. The sample was already in Harding's mobile lab van parked in the driveway.

She had to get to that van and plug in the drive.

She looked out the window. It was raining. A heavy, dark storm.

Perfect.

Vesper dressed in black. She climbed out the window, gripping the wet ivy. She slid down to the garage roof.

She dropped to the ground. Mud splattered her boots.

Harding's van sat in the driveway. A light was on inside. He was waiting for the results.

Vesper moved to the main power box on the side of the garage. She pulled her knife. She jammed it into the main breaker.

Sparks flew. The estate plunged into darkness.

Inside the van, the lights died. The hum of the servers stopped.

"Dammit," Harding's voice.

The door of the van opened. Harding stepped out, flashlight in hand, looking toward the house.

Vesper sprinted. She stayed low. She slid under the chassis of the van. The wet asphalt soaked her back.

Harding walked toward the garage.

Vesper rolled out from under the van. She slipped inside the open door.

She scanned the counter. There. A plastic evidence bag labeled Subject A. Her primary goal was the server port.

She didn't take the evidence. If it was gone, he'd know.

She located the main server rack and jammed Cipher's thumb drive into an open USB port. A tiny LED flickered, indicating the data transfer had begun. Then, for good measure, she pulled a small UV emitter from her pocket and blasted the evidence bag with high-intensity radiation. It would scramble the DNA and degrade the prints.

The van rocked.

Harding was coming back.

Vesper yanked the drive out-thirty-two seconds had passed-and dove. She rolled out the side door just as Harding stepped in the driver's side.

She scrambled under the chassis again.

Harding paused. He felt the vibration.

"Who's there?"

He drew his gun. He dropped to one knee, shining the light under the van.

Vesper held her breath. She was pressed up into the wheel well, her body contorted.

A stray cat, wet and miserable, hissed from the bushes and bolted.

Harding exhaled. He stood up.

The power to the house flickered back on.

Vesper lay in the mud for ten minutes after he went back inside.

When she got back to her room, she was covered in grease and shivering.

Ping.

Cipher: Done. Your prints are now a ghost. The Vesper Vale file is firewalled at NSA-level clearance. If they run them against that, they'll get an 'Access Denied' flag. But the primary search will now match you to Cassandra Sterling's file. You are officially her.

Vesper collapsed onto the bed. She stared at the ceiling.

She was safe. For now.