it was supposed to be flies on a log.”
“Nah. It was ants. I know because I collected them from the garden.”
I laugh, thinking about his sad cooking attempts, always borne of guilt when the nanny chastised him for letting us subsist on take-out and processed food. Celery sticks stuffed with peanut butter and dotted with raisins was his specialty. Another skill I inherited.
“Weren’t you volunteering this morning?” he asks, gesturing to my outfit.
“Yes. I changed on the way over.”
“You like that place?”
“I really like it,” I tell him. “But something happened today.”
He watches me. “What?”
“It got raided.”
“Like, inspected?”
“No, like raided. And torn apart. Like our homes. By the FBI.”
He stops, mid-chew. “What would the FBI want with the Food Bank?”
“Twenty million dollars.”
If it’s possible, he manages to go even more still. “Did they find it?”
I think about Rodney, telling me they bug these rooms. The tables. The phones. “Of course not. It’s not there.”
“Where is it?”
“You tell me.” If I thought three years was enough time to let go of the anger I feel for what my father’s greed did to our lives, I’m mistaken. For a long time I haven’t felt much of anything at all, but as soon as the emotional gates crack open, resentment does its best to shove through.
“Pieces, I—”
“I don’t want to talk about this.” My eyes fill with tears, not entirely part of the performance.
He reaches over to pat my hand. “I know,” he says carefully. “But maybe...we need to.”
“Why would we need to?”
“Because I’m in trouble.”
I gesture to the prison visitation room. “No kidding.”
“Piece—”
“Don’t call me that.”
He sighs. “Reese. I need some help.”
“How much help?”
“A lot.”
“The legal team is doing everything they can.”
“I can’t wait for them much longer. I need money.”
“How much? I’ve been investing what I have. It’s not much, but it’s something.”
“More than that.”
“How much more?”
He looks at me meaningfully. “A lot more.”
“I told you,” I say, my voice shaking. “I told everybody. I don’t have more. And I don’t know where to get it.”
One of the tendons in his neck twitches, the way it does when he’s angry. When he thinks he’s being lied to.
But I’m not the only liar at this table.
“I can give you a dollar,” I offer, sliding the bill across.
His eyes narrow. “What?”
I smooth it flat, the paper soft and crinkled. I’d made six of these yesterday, printed them off, crumpled them up, and tossed them in with a load of laundry. Washed and dried, picked the best one. Financial crimes: the Carlisle specialty.
My dad cocks his head, trying to figure out what I’m doing, then slowly reaches over to take the bill, studying it. He turns it in his hand, and before he speaks, I have my answer. They’d televised his court appearances, cameras zooming in on his face, purported experts discussing how to tell when someone is lying. There’s the telltale tic near his left eyebrow, the way his mouth tightens, then relaxes. Still, I ask, “Do you know who that is?”
“No,” he says, too quickly. He’s staring at Chris’s picture, printed on the back of the bill, the shot of him from the bar, looking too handsome, too deceitful. We’re just a table of liars.
I give him another chance. “You’ve never seen him before?”
My dad folds the money, hiding Chris’s face, and puts it down before picking up another gummy bear. “No,” he says calmly. “Who is he?”
I slip the money into my pocket. “He’s my new boyfriend.”
If it were possible for the table to split in half and open up a chasm between us, that’s what the words would do, and it would be a blessing. As it stands, we continue to make strained small talk for the next fifteen minutes, then I make my excuses to go. His hug, this time, is less delicate. This time it hurts.
I stride down the hall to the waiting area to collect my things, heart pounding so hard I swear Hilroy can see it through my blouse. I’m sweating, an uncomfortable trickle running over my ribs before catching in my waistband.
“Good visit?” Hilroy asks, accepting my chit and retrieving my purse.
“The best.” I pick up the pen and initial next to my check-out time. I’m not in the mood to smile anymore, to flirt, to pretend. But as I turn to go, I get one more idea. I dig deep, for the old Reese Carlisle, and dredge her up, dirt and bones and no sense of self-preservation.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I whisper, returning to the