My uncle once asked me, ‘Are you a virgin?’ when I was already 27 years old. From that moment, I started to be afraid of him. And a few days later, when he took me to a hotel outside the city, he leaned close to my ear by the pool and whispered, ‘After the pool, come up to my room…’”

Richard was standing near the window with his back to me.

He turned when he heard the door.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then his eyes moved over my face, lingering long enough to make me uncomfortable.

“You came,” he said.

I forced myself to smile, although my stomach was tightening.

“You told me to.”

He glanced toward the door.

“Close it, Emily.”

Something about the way he said it made me hesitate.

“Why?”

His expression changed.

“Because what I’m about to tell you is not something I want strangers hearing.”

I looked at the envelope on the desk.

“What’s this about?”

“Your father.”

I felt my shoulders relax slightly.

Then Richard took a step toward me.

“And before you ask anything else, I need you to answer the question I asked you last week.”

My relief disappeared.

I knew exactly which question he meant.

“Are you a virgin?”