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felt the electric tingle of magic against my palm. I pricked my middle finger, wove a glyph in the air with my bleeding finger, careful not to let the blood fall, and said a few more words. Then I took hold of my dad’s hand and pricked his finger. He leaned across his desk and so did I. We were both tall enough that we could place our fingers together, palm to palm, blood to blood.
     
     
    This was the closest to him I’d been in the last fifteen years. It was the longest he’d actually touched me too. He smelled of wintergreen and something musky and pleasant, like leather. The scent of him triggered memories and feelings from a time when I was young enough and stupid enough to believe he was a good person. A time when I thought he was my hero.
     
     
    ‘‘Did you, or your company, Offload into North Portland or onto a child during the last six months?’’ I asked.
     
     
    ‘‘No.’’ His gaze held mine, and that word vibrated in my chest as if I were the one who had spoken it. He was telling the truth as he believed it.
     
     
    ‘‘I don’t want to believe you,’’ I said.
     
     
    He nodded, feeling my truth as I had felt his.
     
     
    ‘‘I’m sorry, Allie.’’ His regret, of things between us, things neither of us could find a way to speak of, filtered back through our blood. Other memories stirred within me. Memories of his infrequent and surprisingly deep laughter, of his hand briefly touching my forehead when I was sick, of the time he made pancakes on Sunday morning.
     
     
    I pulled my hand away from his. The spell broke. That was as much truth as I could stomach.
     
     
    I stuck my bleeding finger in my mouth and felt like I’d just lost a game of chicken.
     
     
    My father pulled a soft white handkerchief out of his suit jacket. He offered it to me. I shook my head. There was no way I was going to leave any more of my blood with him. Truth was the mildest of the blood magics.
     
     
    I squeezed my thumb tight against my bleeding finger and put my hand in my coat pocket.
     
     
    Dad pursed his lips again, disapproving, and pressed his finger against the cloth.
     
     
    ‘‘I don’t know how you rigged a Truth spell,’’ I said, ‘‘but I know your signature. I Hounded it on that Offload. I don’t make mistakes.’’
     
     
    ‘‘Come now,’’ he said. ‘‘You are not infallible. None of us are.’’ He smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes.
     
     
    ‘‘I am reporting you and Beckstrom Enterprises to the authorities,’’ I said.
     
     
    ‘‘I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.’’ He tossed his handkerchief on the desk between us. ‘‘But I’d like you to reconsider. You’ve had your fun, Allie. You’ve proved you can survive on your own without any help from me. And you’ve had time to cool off—we’ve both had time. There is still a place for you in this company. I think you should think about where your talents and training can best be used and applied.’’
     
     
    He smiled again and those light green eyes of his sparkled. He was happy, his voice comforting, encouraging, safe. I wanted to hug him and tell him I missed him and ask him why he couldn’t just be my father instead of my boss. I wanted to let him make all the hard things in my life go away. And something felt very wrong about that.
     
     
    ‘‘Come home, honey,’’ he said, with the unmistakable push of Influence behind his words.
     
     
    I was tired, hungry, cold. I hurt, inside and out, and yeah, I woke up every day afraid I might have lost a little more of my memory, and that magic was taking a harder toll on me than I thought, and that I wasn’t going to make rent on my crummy apartment. Maybe my dad knew all that. Knew I was broke, and scared, and alone. But what he didn’t know was that I would happily endure fear and uncertainty, and even pain, if it meant I could live my life free from his manipulation.
     
     
    ‘‘No. Thanks.’’ It took everything