“How was your flight?” he asks, crossing from the island to hug me. I let him, though it’s stiff, and I’m trembling. Who’s going to say something first? It’s going to be up to me, isn’t it?

“Dad. That essay. My essay—”

“I wish you’d consulted me first, Emmaline.” I watch as my father walks to the sink, fills a glass with filtered water.

“Consulted you?” The words sound like they’re coming from someone else, not me.

“Did you consider how political that essay would be? How polarizing? How, with its publication, you may have invited scores of trolls and clone-haters into our lives?” My father takes a sip of his water. I can’t read his expression. All I hear are the words he’s saying to me: words of disapproval. Shouldn’t he be apologizing for lying to me my whole life? Not criticizing what I’ve done?

“It’s lucky Jaeger Stanwick alerted me to your essay a few days after it was published,” my father continues. “I immediately asked Jane Ward to take it down, and as a courtesy to me, as old friends, she complied. She agreed it compromised your safety,” my father adds. “Thank goodness it wasn’t picked up by any national news outlets.”

My father took my essay down from The Daily Darkwood? Without my permission? Without even telling me? And Jane was in on it?

“Emmaline,” he goes on. “Before you berate me. This is a security issue. It’s not only your safety I’m concerned with, but mine as well. I’m the CEO of a highly public company. This kind of information could be used against both of us—”

“I’m sorry I’ve put your business dealings at risk,” I snap, willing tears not to pool in my eyes.

“That’s not what I meant,” my father answers, looking hurt for the first time. He’s hurt? After what he’s put me through? “I’m a target, Emmaline. Or I would be, if anyone were to find out.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell me the truth all these years? Because you were afraid I’d spill the beans? Let the world know what you’d done?”

My father takes in an audible breath. “What I…”

“Sorry,” I answer. “I mean what Gravelle did for you. You certainly didn’t refuse his generous gift, though, did you? I mean, you could have given me back. But you didn’t.”

Those words hang in the air, fraught. I know I really have hurt him now. I meant to.

“I can’t believe you’d think that I ever could have…” my father says, his voice low. “Given you back, as you so bluntly put it. Emma, when you came into my life—”

“No,” I choke out. “Don’t. I came home to get an apology, and a real explanation. Not to hear lies and manipulations and half-truths.”