“I like to think so.”
“I’ll listen. Why don’t you tell me what you tell them?”
“Those are very private things,” she says. She looks at me sideways. “I think you’re probably the type that’s good at keeping secrets—but not as good as dead people.”
“You’d be surprised. I haven’t told anyone about your rooftop walks or our nightly visits.”
“Not even your mother?”
“Especially not her. That should elevate me to Level Three trust status.”
“Two and a half.”
“That’s something. I’ll take what I can get.”
I ask her about the Collective meeting in two days. She tells me two of the members won’t be there because they’re traveling out of the country. “Only six of us. Besides you and me, Vina, Shane LeGru, Cece Carrington, and Ian Dvorak will be there.”
“It’s at your house this time, right?” I already know this but I don’t want to let on that I have every detail of her life memorized—at least the details the Network has been able to gather.
“Nearly all the meetings are at my house. That’s the way Father prefers it.”
“And the others don’t mind?”
“If they do, they keep it to themselves.”
“Because he’s important?”
She reaches out and plucks an elm leaf from an overhead branch as we pass and twirls the stem in her fingers. “That’s right.”
“So tell me about him. What makes him so important?”
“I’m surprised you don’t know already. Everyone else seems to. My father’s Secretary of Security for the DSA, fourth in line to the president. It’s his job to keep us all safe.”
All? Hardly. I don’t think she has a clue about his dirty dealings or secret detainment centers. “Really? That does sound like an important job.”
She looks at me sharply. “Are you mocking him?”
I thought I said it sincerely, but maybe some of my cynicism seeped out. I note, however, that she’s defensive of him, loyal even. I make a mental note that it’s a subject to broach very carefully with her. “I don’t even know him. How could I mock him? I told you about my parents last night. Tell me about yours.”
She tosses the leaf in her fingers aside. “It’s only me and my father. My mother died when I was twelve. She was…” She shakes her head and I see the hardening of her face, like she’s blocking out the memory.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I was adopted. My mother and I were very close. She was the best mother anyone could hope for.”
“You were adopted?”
“Yes. I didn’t find out about it until I was eight years old. I started asking questions, wondering why I didn’t look like either of my parents. My mother overruled my father’s dictum and told me. She had always wanted to be honest with me and never understood why he wanted to keep it a secret. My father was furious with her.”
“Do you get along with him?”
“He’s my father—and I’m his daughter. We deal with it. What else is there to say?” And then in a softer voice, “It’s been hard for him since my mother died. He was very close to her too, and he depended on her for a lot of things. I don’t think he quite knows what to do with me now.” She shakes her head and her eyes narrow as she looks into the distance. “Actually, he probably never did know what to do with me. I don’t think fatherhood was a role he was comfortable with. Now that he has to play both mother and father, he tends to go a bit overboard.”
I know I’m walking on shaky ground but I ask anyway. “Overboard?”
She’s careful with her reply. “Because of his position, he has certain … expectations for how his daughter should conduct herself in public—and private too for that matter. But I suppose I’m better off than most.”
Than most what? Non-pacts? But I don’t say it. I hear the strain in her voice. This sharing is pushing her limits.