Barbara reaches out for her coffee, with far more shots and sugar than a human being should be allowed to have on no food yet, and studies him. That crease of confusion between her brows is sharper than it is floundering. He should know far better than that. But the longer she stares, the less she's sure of the man across from her.

"I don't have a sister. You should know that."

Her Jason absolutely would. Not unless you counted the girls. Barbara would count the girls. But there wouldn't be a reason for the singular. Nor for not calling them by their names. Then, also. "You didn't answer my question earlier. About whether the others are here, too."