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He’s not giving me anything to go off, though.

And I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.

I say, “I’m trying to find a name.”

The simplicity of it takes him off guard. He glances at the camera, then the door over my shoulder as if this is some kind of joke or part of the production.

“A name?” he says. “Is that all?”

“It’s important.”

As soon as those two words are out of my mouth, I know I’ve messed up.

“Oh, don’t—” Dad rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ. Don’t give it away so fast. Desperation doesn’t look good on you.”

I growl. “I’m not desperate.”

“Bullshit.” Dad shows all his perfect teeth, gets that malicious spark in his eyes. It sets off my fight-or-flight. Stupid, stupid. “You walked in reeking of desperation. You know what I thought? I thought you’d finally snapped. That you’d come here to beg me to fix whatever mess you made out there. Hell, I was already preparing some stupid little speech telling you that you made your choice, sorry, can’t help you from the other side of—”

He yanks at the cuffs.

“This leash you put me on.”

It takes too long for me to find my words. Long enough that he knows he has the upper hand.

“Sorry to disappoint, then,” I say.

This is punishment for telling the truth. I should’ve known better; he raised me better. Whatever this is about to spiral into, I deserve it.

“How badly do you want to find this name?” Dad asks.

“Badly.”

“Which means I get to determine the price of that information.”

“You do.”

Dad considers me. Looks me up and down. If he weren’t chained to the table, he might reach out and tuck my hair behind my ear, so gently, the way he used to do to his girls.

Dad didn’t do anything to me, not like everyone online thinks he did. Not like my child-protection advocate asked in her office, not like the jury wondered when the truth finally hit the courtroom. Not like, I think, Mom wonders about when she studies me for too long. I’ve seen the jealous tic in her jaw when she makes me change in front of her. I know we’re identical enough that it triggered some sort of reverse Electra complex. And I don’t want to think about it. I swear to god I don’t.

But it is so hard not to think about something. My brain doesn’t work like that. It gets caught, it gets stuck, and the harder I fight, the worse it gets. It’s disgusting. I think about being ten, nine, eight years old. I think about my dad touching me. Why would I think about it if I didn’t want it, why do I want it, I don’t want it, apparently I fucking DO.

Please don’t let that get stuck. If it gets stuck, I won’t be able to handle it.

“We used to be so close,” Dad says. “We knew everything about each other. Every father I worked with at the office, they were jealous. Did you know that? They wished they had a daughter who loved me as much as you did.”

Don’t phrase it like that.

“And I miss that. It was wonderful, what we had. Of course, you had to go and fuck it up, but we can’t all be perfect. So why don’t you tell your old man something about yourself? Bring him up to speed?”

I breathe in, shakily. “Is that all?”

“Well,” Dad says, “you’ve got to tell me something of equal importance to that name. Or this whole trade is horrendously unfair.”

I almost laugh because, hey, isn’t this exactly what I did to Felicity in the Smithsonian? Coming right around to bite me in the ass.

And I have something. I have the perfect answer. The most important truth I’ve been hiding in my pocket all this time. The only reason I’m gritting my teeth, desperately agreeing to the terms of getting the trust as soon as possible.