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“Sure,” I agree. “But you’re also implying that they breed like rabbits and because of the last name continuing down a female line, they don’t marry the fathers of their children.”

“Don’t marry or can’t hang on to them,” Mom mutters, and I reach across the table to pull the wineglass from her hand.

“First of all, changing your last name upon marriage is an archaic form of transferring ownership of a woman from father to husband. And secondly, Bristal isn’t pregnant.”

At least, I don’t think she is. If she is she should probably stop vaping and starting fistfights.

“Fine, you’ve given your evidence against the patriarchy,” Dad says, the trappings of lawyer mode still hanging from him even though office hours are over. “And you’ve rather artfully changed the course of this conversation. What does Jeremy Dayforth have to do with anything?”

“And can’t you just start a different podcast, honey?” Mom asks, her worry lines deepening. “On the Ground in Flyover Country is so nice!”

I flinch at that word the way she did at wound. “Exactly,” I tell her. “And so was Jeremy Dayforth. Ithaca didn’t accept him, and he rolled over and didn’t argue. Now he stocks the paper products aisle at the Family Dollar and uploads bitter YouTube videos about how he could have been something if not for his humble roots.”

“I don’t think his roots are entirely to blame,” Dad says. “If he couldn’t hack it, that doesn’t fall entirely at the feet of Henley.”

“I agree,” I admit. “And I do think Henley is a nice place to live.”

“Then why not celebrate it?” Mom asks. “Why drag it through the dirt? Why not stick with the clean image? It’s not entirely untrue.”

“Because dirt is part of being human,” I tell her. “And I think there’s greater beauty in a whole truth rather than sectioning off the easily palatable parts. I mean . . .”

I spin my fork, aware that I’m contradicting myself and unsure how to claw my way to clarity. “It’s like this,” I say. “Henley is a nice place, but nothing is perfect. As an aspiring journalist, I can do what I’ve been doing—highlight the positives and hope that all the world needs is love—or I can be truthful, present this town as a whole picture, and ask people to appreciate it for what it is, not what we pretend it to be.”

“Well said.” Mom nods. “I’ll need you to write that down for me so I can repeat it when the phone calls from my knitting circle start coming in.”

“Look,” I plow forward. “All I’m asking is to be able to do exactly what Dad does every day, look at the darkness and find the shades of gray.”

That one hits, and I let them marinate in it for a second.

Dad is one of the only defense attorneys in Markham County that will fight instead of roll over and plea down. He’s won the hearts of plenty of people by defending the less fortunate, but there’s an equal amount that won’t speak to us for the same reasons. Being nice in Henley comes with a couple of supposed to’s—you’re supposed to be nice . . . but only to the people you’re supposed to be nice to. Mom had to drop out of her book club last year after Dad defended the man who had broken into the organizer’s house, taking everything right down to the kid’s piggy bank.

But when Dad took on the case of Abe Lytle, even I have to admit that pleading insanity might be a better move than going for not guilty. Lytle came from a long line of proud military men and women. He’d signed up and shipped out at the age of eighteen only to return broken, driving his young wife back into the safety of her childhood home. She took their kid with her and filed for divorce—and full custody. Abe panicked, certain that he would never see his son again.

On an emotional tear, he’d decided the surest route to keeping his family together was kidnapping his child. He’d forced the school bus off the road, then pushed his way on board, waving a gun—but the driver wasn’t going to let him anywhere near a kid—his, or anyone else’s. When Lytle dragged Lawrence Horvath from his seat, the man’s T-shirt came up, exposing a white belly that snagged on the steering wheel as Lytle threw him to the ground outside.

From there, the videos usually cut to the phone footage, the black-and-white of the bus feed now in full color as Horvath’s teeth fly, and blood spills onto the highway. If you pause it just right, you can see Cody Lytle quietly staring out the window, watching his father beat his bus driver nearly to death.

Dad defending Lytle cost him a few other clients—paying ones. I’m not going to let my parents lecture me about staying on the good side of the right people in Henley when Dad takes bigger risks, and the only response from Mom is to pour a little more wine than usual.

“True,” Dad says carefully. “The comparison between what you want to do with your podcast and what I do for a living is valid, but are you ready for the blowback?”

“I’ve been your daughter for eighteen years,” I tell him. “Yes. And like I said, it’s historical. I’m not going to be dishing dirt about classmates or faculty.”

“No,” Mom says stiffly. “You’ll be trash-talking their grandmas.”

“And people can be funny about their grandmas,” Dad adds.

Their faces are still serious, but the mood has lightened, and I feel permission on the horizon. I finish up with a plea for some soundproofing panels and complete creative control of the upstairs linen closet, adding that one of my recent anonymous reviews commented that my sound quality could use a boost.

“For all we know, that was someone from Columbia,” I tell them. “They’re considering applicants right now, and I need to start churning out real content with high-quality tech.”

Mom and Dad share another glance, a silent negotiation going on between them.

“I think this could be interesting,” Mom says, the last top-off of wine adding to her enthusiasm. “But can you run episode ideas past your father and me first?”

“That’s censorship,” I tell her flatly. “No.”

“Why don’t you think of us as more of your corporate sponsors,” Dad offers. “With a vested interest in the messaging?”