Practically every family had that especially estranged member of whom everyone refused to speak aloud. And as Cairo tore off his helmet and parked his motorcycle in the rain, trudging ahead to approach the front doors of the ever-looming Quimby Hotel with its vintage sign and pristine windows, he realized that was him. Everything looked exactly the same as he remembered, as if no one had noticed he'd ever left. The mahogany double doors with crystal knobs, the balconies on the upper floors lined with potted plants, the familiar umbrella holder by the entrance—it had all been frozen in time. He was surprised by the bitterness that flooded him. There was something about the fact that the hotel was starkly unaffected by his absence that left a bad taste in his mouth.

Cairo stood before the hotel for a few impossibly long moments, staring unblinkingly up at the glimmering cursive letters that spelled out The Quimby Hotel. He was forced to wrestle with his judgment before finally ducking under the canopy and out of the rain, hand closing hesitantly around the faux diamond handle. His good eye flicked to the signs plastered to the windows on either side of the doors, reading OPEN 24/7 and FAMILY OWNED & OPERATED respectively. Family owned and operated indeed. This was precisely the reason he could not bring himself to turn the doorknob.

Get ahold of yourself, Cairo, he snapped at himself, and pushed both doors open.

He entered soaking wet and particularly angry, so it was no surprise that heads turned in the lobby as he stomped his way to the front desk, refusing to look around and take in the view of his childhood home. He refused to admire the intricate, gleaming chandeliers, the red lounge chairs or the paintings hung that he knew had been done by Berlin—there were many more of them now. He tightened his jaw, biting down on his persistent pain, and finally brought himself to look the receptionist in the eye.

Tokyo Quimby stared at her older brother in unbridled shock.

Their gazes locked together in contest for what felt like hours but was probably only moments. Finally her mouth quirked upward in a smirk.

"Well, well, well," Tokyo murmured. "The one that got away. Seems like the grand world is treating you well," she quipped, smiling wider.

He watched her blankly, too exhausted to properly react. Apparently, the sarcasm she'd wielded when she was ten was still going strong. "I'd like to be checked in."

"Would you now?" Her eyes glimmered, and Cairo found himself suddenly jealous of anyone who had both eyes intact. If she didn't hurry up and give him a room key, she wouldn't for much longer. "Let me just check and see what's available."

He sighed, shifting his weight and glancing up at the enormous clock above them. A family heirloom, allegedly—of his stepfather's, not his mother's. The piece of furniture that had started the Quimby Hotel, back when it was nothing more than an abandoned building and a dream. His early years after his mother's marriage to Richard Quimby were filled with endless hours in this very place, playing with his brothers and occasionally helping as plumbing was installed, walls were painted, and furniture was moved in. Cairo had watched the hotel grow up with him, from nothing to everything.

"Ah, yes," Tokyo said brightly. "We have a room ready for you on the fourth floor. It's called the Abandonment Suite. There's a nice big balcony for you to throw yourself off of." Her straight white smile was sharper than before, and her eyes fiercer. She could do that; subtly make her appearance scarier for just a flash, enough to make you wonder if you'd imagined it. But Cairo knew better. He rolled his eye and wished he hadn't after it made his head hurt again.

"Fine. You know what? Don't give me a room. Where's Father?"

"Go to hell, Cairo," she told him cheerily. He huffed his annoyance and left the desk, abandoning that idea. He would just have to find Father himself.

After a quick scan of the lobby and its idly chatting visitors he determined anyone useful would be upstairs. But he got no further than a few steps before a strangled gasp elicited from the top of the spiraling staircase. Lifting his head filled Cairo with dread, but he did it.

His mother stood, a feathered hat atop her updo and a dumbfounded expression on her face. She was as beautiful as ever, her pristine complexion and dark eyes never seeming to age. Like Cairo, she rarely allowed her stronger emotions to roam free, but the way she tilted her head at him with a combination of confusion and disbelief was enough, her prim dark brows knitted together. She descended the stairs slowly, and out of respect, Cairo stood in place, waiting for her.

Soon they were face to face, and though Cairo was much taller than his mother now he felt terribly small. She reached out as if to feel whether he was real, frowning as she peeled up the patch covering Cairo's right socket. He winced, drawing back slightly. Her fingers brushed against ravaged flesh and dried blood faded away, sensations of relief and healing easing the pain in his face and the tension in his shoulders. Involuntarily Cairo relaxed. She slid the patch back on again and cupped his face.

"Why have you come?" she asked finally.

Cairo swallowed, looking away. He could already tell the answer she was looking for. I'm coming back home. I'm here to stay. But it was too difficult to lie to her. "I came to warn you," he replied, his voice stony. "The hotel is in danger. I need to speak with Father."

She nodded, releasing him. "He's on the phone, in the office." She began to leave but paused. "Stay for dinner."

His throat burned when he said, "Of course." He listened to her heels clicking on the black-and-white diamond tiles but did not watch her go. Relieved, he dared to tear his gaze from the floor and was met with Tokyo's mercilessly judging glare. He was beginning to regret his arrival already.

Cairo's feet were bricks and the stairs were quicksand as he dragged himself up to the second floor. This time there was no physical pain involved—his mother had taken care of that—but there was something that cut deeper, something much worse. All the guilt that he'd learned to bury to the bottom of his stomach, all the resentment that he'd finally pushed out of sight and out of mind was back with an intensity that he really did not have the time nor the willpower to confront at the moment. It was pooling over him like sand in an hourglass, Cairo suffocating further by the minute as it filled his mouth and lungs. All he could afford to do was sink in and drown...

He was lifted up gasping by the starkly real and tangible feeling of something furry slinking past his legs. Splotchy brown and strikingly blue-eyed, the resident hotel cat was peering curiously at him, likely oblivious to the deathly inner turmoil that gripped him. He took in a sharp breath, calming himself.

"You're still here?" he muttered, gently kicking Blue aside. She slipped away and vanished down the laundry hall, slick as ice.

Cairo glanced through the window to his stepfather's office before pushing open the door and letting himself in. Mr. Quimby was, as his mother had asserted, speaking heatedly into the corded landline phone, cigar in hand and smoke wafting up to the rafters.

"How many customers have to file complaints before you start getting your sorry behinds here on time? I can drop you and have a new cleaning service at my front door like that, so you'd better make a decision and make it quick." He paused. "No, no, this isn't a negotiation. I'm not running a charity for lazy employees and their incompetent managers." He leaned forward slightly in his wheeled desk chair, turning further away from Cairo's direction. He had not yet registered his presence. "I want to see your truck in my parking lot tomorrow morning at five A.M. sharp, or your contract is up. Do I make myself clear?"

Cairo's mouth twitched in the beginnings of an amused smile. Dealing with an annoyed Richard Quimby on the phone was bad enough, but anyone who found himself standing before his commanding presence in person when he'd been ticked off was about to receive a run for his money. He wasn't the irrational, violent sort of angry like Cairo could occasionally get—no, Mr. Quimby's anger was swift and efficient and knew how to get the job done. He had to admit he was very reasonable, even when Cairo didn't like his decisions. And boy, sometimes he really didn't.

His stepfather put the phone down with just enough force to release a bit of pent-up frustration. He spun his chair all the way around, bringing the cigar to his mouth, and froze upon noticing Cairo standing in wait. Mr. Quimby was a man of intimidating stature even when seated, with a rugged face and hard-set eyes and slicked-back hair that was somewhere between blond and brown depending on the way the light was shining. Where his wife was the picture of elegance and poise, he was authoritative and bullish, but they both had a similar stern composure, except for when they looked at each other with that gleam in their eyes of something Cairo didn't understand. That look always seemed to soften them.

"Father," Cairo greeted, dipping his head.

His stepfather raised an eyebrow as he exhaled. "Well. You've decided to return. After..." He considered it. "Five years?" He waved his cigar in the general direction or Cairo's battered face. "What happened here?"

Cairo ran a hand through his dripping hair, feeling self-conscious under his scrutinizing gaze. "Three men claiming to be Guard. They're after you. I was a warning."

He began to nod, slowly, processing both the information and undoubtedly how different Cairo looked. When he'd last seen him, Cairo was eighteen and soft-skinned, nothing like the scarred, sharp-edged young man who stood before him with nothing left behind the eyes—or eye—but savage indifference and bottled despair.

When his father didn't say anything, Cairo went on. "I came to tell you that these men, whoever they actually are, believe you are in the possession of something Unlawful. I can personally attest that their violence needs no justification and their threats are not empty."

"You've wasted your time," Mr. Quimby said, with a stoicism that could certainly rival the hardness in Cairo's own heart. It hit him like a punch to the gut. Wasted my time. What...? "I am well aware of the target on my head. Two weeks prior to this conversation the captain paid me a visit under the guise of checking up on an old friend. Snooped around. I suspect what he found that day has started this ridiculous manhunt. If you didn't know, the captain has a penchant for seeing beyond the surface. We all have our talents."

Quirks, he meant. Cairo wasn't favorable to discussing those just now. "What is it that you're hiding, then?" There was a bite to his voice that he hadn't expected to be there. He was frustrated at the implication that pushing past his strong feelings of shame and enmity to warn his father was all for naught. He already hated himself enough for doing it in the first place.

Mr. Quimby looked at him sharply before relaxing and barking a laugh. "You honestly think I'm going to tell you?"

Cairo's face contorted in disgust. "You don't trust me."

"Why should I?" he countered. Cairo swallowed bile rising in his throat. "And besides," he continued, "that isn't the problem. I simply do not have the time nor the will to explain the nature of the Unlawful, deal with your questions about things like why, and then worry about one more running mouth putting us in danger, particularly when there could be ears everywhere. I have enough on my hands defending the family and managing the hotel. The Unlawful is none of your concern. My telling you more details than necessary would only stress your mother."

None of his concern. He was so stupid. He should never have come. "Then there's no reason for me to be here any longer," he snapped. He would return to his bleak life, his meaningless chases and glass under boots in the rain. He would act as though none of this had ever happened, and perhaps, with one less quirk to remind him of who and what he was, he could finally forget all about the Quimby Hotel.

Just as Cairo turned to leave, his father tapped his cigar on the desk.

"You're not going anywhere, Cairo."

He turned back slowly, anger building in his chest. "And why is that?"

"Watch your tone, son. You're not leaving after what happened to your eye. If the Guard comes after you again, this is the safest place you can be. There's a reason people book a room here when they're on the run or looking to remain invisible. The protections on the hotel ensure that malice will not touch you. Until I figure out how to get rid of the captain's goons, it's too dangerous to be out on your own."

Cairo clenched his jaw and stared at him, unsure how to feel; annoyed with Father for treating him this way or relieved that he was bothered enough to care whether Cairo lived or died. "I'm not a child," he said eventually.

Mr. Quimby leveled the commanding gaze at Cairo that he still felt like a crushed beetle beneath, even now at twenty-three. "Doesn't matter. They've crippled you. You're a target as much as I am."

He was hardly any more of a cripple now than before. There had never been anything useful about Cairo being In-Between, granted only the most ineffectual gifts, like he was an afterthought. He was the untalented son, not strong enough to win a fight and not smart enough to know better than to pick one, and everyone was quite keen to notice. There was nothing here for him at the Quimby Hotel, and there was no part of him left to care. But he didn't need to tell his stepfather any of that—he already knew.

Unfortunately, Cairo was about to take on a much more arduous task than facing his family, as if that wasn't awful enough. Because if he was going to be stuck here in his dreaded childhood home, and Father wouldn't answer his questions, then he would get to the bottom of this himself.

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