My family’s name opened doors. Practice is what kept them open. I learned the game. I was a girl in a man’s world. I knew my looks were an asset. I played that card.

The sexy vamp on that cover is nothing like me as a person then or now, but it was a role I had to embrace. “Come for the tits, stay for the skills.” I heard Grandfather say that once when he didn’t think I was listening. Or maybe he was speaking loudly enough so I would hear. With him, it was hard to tell.

In the world of show business, the magazine cover is a point of pride, not a scandal. In the puritanical world of the FBI, where you’re expected to spend six days serving J. Edgar Hoover and the seventh in a church pew, it would look not much better than a sex tape. You become “that kind of a girl.” The wink, the pout; I stole the pose from a men’s magazine. I knew as much about sex then as I did the far side of the moon.

I lift the magazine and show the cover to Ailes. “Do you mean, should I be doing this, instead of working in the FBI? I disclosed everything when I signed up. The agency knows my background.”

“An interesting family history,” says Ailes. “Not something you need to be ashamed of.”

Shame. There’s the word. Is that how I feel? I don’t know. I really don’t know. I tried to hide it. But only because I wanted to fit in. Maybe that’s the definition of shame? I toss the magazine down on the table. “Then why is this here? Why am I here?”

Ailes looks at me for a moment, then a light goes on behind his eyes. “I see. You have my apology, Agent Blackwood. Let me start over.”

I’m confused. There’s almost a kindly look on his face. He turns the magazine facedown, telling me the photo is not the point of the conversation. Then what is?

He points to his laptop. “We go through those questionnaires that you fill out and we look at other data points. Your name came up and I was curious as to why. I did some digging in our archives and found the magazine and made the connection. I forget sometimes the holier-than-thou bent of some of your peers. I’m not here to embarrass you.”

I flip the magazine over so my younger self is visible. “I’m not embarrassed.” My eyes look at the sequins and skin. “Not that embarrassed. It’s my past. Just my past. Cheerleaders dress like that now.”

“But you weren’t a cheerleader.”

“I wasn’t much of a team player.” The words flow before I realize what I just said.

Ailes ignores it. “I don’t care about photos, Blackwood. I was interested in what I read. You were a magician. A professional magician. And from what I’ve found out, not just a pretty face who used the family name long enough to pay her way through college working cruise ships and casinos. You performed and you invented magic. In all the FBI, do you know how many agents have that level of experience?”