I was persistent with my family, pushing them to let me become a magician. Once they saw the potential, at least the novelty of it, I became the center of attention. Father was relieved to have someone else fall under Grandfather’s hypercritical eye. Grandfather, having given up hope on his son, began to increasingly look to me to continue his legacy.

After the incident in Mexico, my contact with them has been minimal at best. I didn’t invite any of them to my graduation from college or the FBI academy. It was a selfish thing. I try to pretend they wouldn’t have cared. But I know that’s not true.

Ailes asking me to put on a show for Breyer and Chisholm scratches a little too deep. I can remember being a teenager, not quite fifteen, and noticing the way some men looked at me. The glances were different from when I was a little girl. It made me self-conscious about my magic and so I practiced more. I made sure my show was better. I created illusions, I took it seriously. I didn’t want them to see me that way. I wanted them to respect me for my skills. Some did, but most others continued to look at me like a piece of ass in a tight costume. Then there were the men like Breyer and Chisholm, who just saw me as a little girl putting on a show because she couldn’t get enough attention.

As I lie in bed trying to put the dream out of my mind, I realize the television is on in the other room. Half asleep, for a moment I think it’s Terrence, but we broke up months ago.

I know who it is.

It’s Damian.

Of course it would be him.

At one of the worst moments in my life, of course he would drop in like thunder from a rain cloud.

I reach over to my nightstand and take my pistol from the drawer, then get out of bed. I move toward my door and slowly turn the handle.

The news is on in the living room. I can feel cold air coming from under my door. He must have slipped in through the veranda and left the sliding glass door open.

I keep the gun pointed to the ground with my right hand and open the door with my left. I swing it open.

He’s sitting there on my couch dressed in khakis and a blue polo shirt, with his feet on the coffee table like he owns the place. Today his hair is a light brown. It’s cut close and he has a tan and a lean build like a tennis pro. With Damian, I never can tell how he’ll appear next.

He looks up at me and gives me a broad smile.

“That. Is. Hot.” He emphasizes each of the words. “The gun especially.” His eyes linger over me. I’m still wearing the T-shirt I slept in and a pair of pink boy shorts.