Rey tried to picture her father, anything at all about him beyond a vague male shape with a kind voice and hazy features. She could remember her mother more clearly; a blue cloak, light brown hair in a long braid down her back. A promise to return.

Rey, be brave. You'll be safe here.

"He had them killed, didn't he."

Her voice is hollow and far-away sounding to her own ears. She'd long since accepted that they were dead; there was no other answer that would've hurt less. Either they were dead or they had simply never cared to return, and she could never quite find it in her to believe they'd cast her aside so carelessly.

She's gone cold again in shock and suppressed rage she lacks the ability to express. A part of her wanted to scream at them both, to call down every dark impulse she'd ever had onto them both and somehow erase the knowledge of this horror with them. But they were being kind to her, both of them, and it was almost more than she could bear.

"Does it mean I'm like him? Is that why you're telling me?"