I shake my head. "Not really. I…sort of remember a woman singing to me, but I'm not sure if it was my mom or maybe an early foster memory. And I don't remember my dad at all."
He nods like this makes sense to him and gestures with his champagne flute. "Yes, well, you were so very young when you entered the system."
"I was."
"How old were you?"
"Uh." I struggle to remember with too many things still swirling in my brain. There are things Iamsupposed to know and things I'm not and I need to be careful. But I can answer this. I can answer any questions he throws at me about my history before the night I met the guys because it all fits the profile of what he's looking for.
"I don't know, exactly. That's why I put 'not applicable' on your form. They registered my birthday as the date the woman left me at that fire station, so I'm not sure how old I was."
He swallows his sip of cava and sets his flute down with a mimicry of real empathy in the lines around his eyes. Either I was right and I don't have anything to fear from this man as his maybe-daughter, or he's an even better actor than I am.
"I can't imagine the things you've been through, but look at you now, a young woman in university making her own way. Any parent would be proud of that."
My face heats, and I tense at the compliment because I amnota scholarship student working her way through university. I'm the girl who helped steal a priceless work of art in a Parisian museum and then murdered a man on its streets. I'm the girl whose only actual goal in life right now is to makethis manpay for his sins.
Wherever they are out there, I don't think my real parents would be proud of me. But then again, they did abandon littletwo- or three-year-old me at a fire station in upstate New York, so…
Fuck those assholes.
"It's not exactly glamorous," I say with a shrug, waving an arm to indicate the room where we sit, its jacquard wallpaper and heavy velvet curtains, the opulent chandelier over the six-foot mahogany table. "Not like…all this."
He leans over the table as if sharing a secret, and says, "It's not all it's cracked up to be. Between you and I, I'd much prefer a simpler life. All of this," he shrugs boredly, "it's exhausting. Boring, really. But it was the legacy I was born to."
…so you had to go and steal someone else's.
My knuckles pop beneath the table, even as I grin and let out a small, breathy laugh.
"So, over the years," he swirls his wine, "your parents never made any attempt to reach out to you? None at all?"
Ambrose smiles at me over the rim of his glass, and it’s warm. Genuine, even.
It’s disconcerting.
Monsters should look like monsters. They shouldn’t be allowed to have kind eyes or flawless table manners.
My throat is dry again, and I reach for the cava, but I know I need to stay sober for this, so I don't lift it to my lips.
"No, never," I reply, reaching far over for the pitcher in the middle of the table and pouring water all the way to the brim of my water glass.
When I'm seated again, water glass in hand, I go still at the expression on Ambrose's face. He's staring at me—at the spot beneath my throat like a shark that's smelled blood in the water.
I look down and see my necklace slipped from the collar of my blouse when I reached for the water. It now rests atop the crepey fabric.
Why is he looking at it like that?
I tense.
Does he recognize it?
Surely not.
Shakily, I bring the water to my lips and take a long swallow, but when I set the glass down, he's still staring.
My lips part to ask him if he recognizes it, but I can't seem to make myself do it.
"How are we doing in here?" the server asks as he reenters the dining room, and I take the opportunity provided by the interruption to slip the necklace back down the front of my shirt. The instant it's out of sight, it's like a spell is broken and Ambrose smiles pleasantly at the waiter.
