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“Brown hair, blue eyes. Harvard Law graduate. Layla the dalmatian…”

“I see.”

“I lied, but I ate a few months of warm meals because of it. I don’t — and won’t — regret that. Trust me, down here on the bottom, others have done far worse.”

I shake my head. “Now you misunderstand.”

“I do?”

“This isn’t about the ethics of stealing food to survive,” I argue. “This is about a little girl — a human being — whose existence is now tainted because of your lie.”

“Tainted for who?” he asks. “For her? Or for you?”

I open my mouth to argue further, but I stumble over my tongue. “I don’t know who you are.” I bite down. “I don’t know who fifty percent of my daughter is anymore, and that terrifies me.”

He shrugs. “What do you want to know?”

“What?”

“What do you want to know?” he repeats. “Ask me anything.”

I shake my head and scoff, but he doesn’t move. He stands there, unblinking, waiting for me to ask him whatever I want.

Where do I even begin?

“How’s your health?” I stutter out.

He shifts a step back to lean against the banister with his hands in his jacket pockets. “Nothing worth noting,” he says. “Broke my arm when I was fourteen. Other than that, never had much reason to step into a hospital.”

“What about your family?” I ask. “Is there a history of heart disease or cancer?”

“No, none of that,” he answers. “Alcoholism may be an issue, but whose family doesn’t have a bit of that nowadays, am I right?”

“Mental illness?” I add, ignoring the joke.

“I had one uncle on my mother’s side who lived out of a whiskey bottle and jumped off a bridge,” he says. “Other than that, just a lot of social anxiety and a few freckles.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. My ancestors were from Western Europe. Irish and Scottish, mostly. My great-great grandparents came over on the Titanic, actually.”

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Yeah, they, uh…” He breathes a laugh. “They stuffed her dress with a pillow to make her look pregnant so they could sneak onto a lifeboat.”

I blink. “So, the lying bastard thing is genetic?”

“Possibly…” he says, smiling. “But I think that’s more of a nurture issue than a nature one, so your girl should be fine as long as you raise her right.”

“That’s…” I exhale. “Okay, then.”

Milo pushes off the banister. “Do you love your daughter, Detective?”

“Yes.”

“Would you trade her if you could?”

“No.”