I’m hesitant to follow Claire.

It’s not like we haven’t been in here before. In fact, the study is the most familiar part of the house. But something about this feels very mob-boss movie to me. How she walks in silently, closes the sliding door behind her. How she sits on the couch and gestures for me to sit across from her. How I obey. It’s all very Godfather—part one, of course, the best Godfather.

But she’s smart and knows my weakness. It’s the one thing that identifies me as being my parents’ son: I love knowledge. I live for it. Having information—all of it—is power. Information isn’t harmful or good; it’s neutral, and it’s about how you use it.

And Claire has all the information I could ever want.

But the silence? That I could do without.

“Ask anything you want,” she finally says.

“Is he telling the truth?”

She pauses. “My son, intentionally or not, speaks in half-truths. There is some honesty in what he’s saying, of course. But he doesn’t know the whole picture.”

“Because you didn’t tell him, or because he’s choosing not to tell me?”

“The former.” Those two words don’t come out easily. “You have to understand where I…where we were coming from.”

“I really don’t, Mrs. McIntyre,” I interject. “I appreciate what you gave me, I really do, but that doesn’t matter if it’s not the whole story. I don’t remember the philosopher who said this, but a good deed doesn’t matter if it comes with bad intentions. You gave me this liver because you were experimenting on me.”

“I was not,” she says. Hurt clouds her face. “I’m not that kind of person.”

“I believe you.” Or, at the very least, I believe that she doesn’t think she’s that kind of person. But somehow, that truth rings false. Like when someone says they’re not racist, but their actions prove differently. “Then why did you do it? Give me the liver?”

“Because you needed it.”

“And also because you were hoping, like Blake said, to pass on the time-traveling gene.”

“Those two things are not exclusive, nor do they need to be!”

I sigh and stand. I pace, walking back and forth in front of the bookshelves, filled with memories and histories that Claire has probably lived firsthand.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m not.” At least, I don’t think I am.

“Then betrayed? Hurt? Abused?”

Do I feel betrayed? No. That’s not the word I’m looking for. Neither are the other ones. I don’t know this family well enough to feel those things. The emotional hooks of friendliness and found family haven’t sunk into my flesh yet. If anything, I feel…validated.