Milo Murray is Charlotte’s father.

Cute dimples and all.

I can’t believe I didn’t see it the second I looked at him. It’s so obvious now. I see him in her right now, just sitting there scribbling on the pages of her coloring book. Thin cheeks. Sparks of deep blue in her brown eyes.

My chest aches. How can I look at her the same again?

The doorbell rings. Charlotte twitches in her seat at the kitchen table to look over her shoulder toward the foyer.

I hold up a finger. “Stay here,” I tell her as I stand up. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

She nods and goes right back to filling in the tree with bright green leaves. I run a hand through her hair as I pass, feeling the soft, perfect strands and trying to remember if my hair was this nice when I was her age. I seem to remember multiple occasions of my mother trying to tame my wild, curly mane.

I reach the front door and look through the side window to see who it is.

My heart jolts.

I spin away from the window but he’s already seen me.

“Ann— er, Detective?”

I back away from the door, keeping one eye on it as I reach for the gun in my ankle holster.

“Detective?” I hear again. “Look, I know you’re there. Can we—”

I throw open the door and step outside with my gun leading the way.

Milo throws up his hands, his fingertips still marked with ink from the station. “Whoa—!” he says. “That’s a very big gun. All right, then.”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I just want to talk to you.”

“How do you know where I live?”

He stares at the gun between us. “You’re in the phone book. I looked you up. It wasn’t that difficult…”

“Why?”

“Anna…”

“Detective.”

“Detective Anna…” He slowly lowers his hands. “I had something to say and it didn’t feel right over the phone.”

I stand firm. “Say it, then.”

“Okay, but first… can you, just…” He raises a finger and sets it on top of my gun, slowly guiding it out of his face. I let it lower but I keep a tight grip on it. “There we go,” he says, breathing out.

I close the door behind me, protecting my child. “What do you want?” I ask again.

Milo pauses, quietly shifting on his toes before speaking. “Would you believe me if I said I was sorry?” he asks.

“No,” I answer. “Why would I? You lie for a living.”

“So do lawyers,” he says. “And yet, you chose one to father your child.”

I squint with annoyance. “Okay, you’re sorry for committing fraud. Good. Anything else?”

He shakes his head. “You misunderstand. I’m not sorry I did it. I’m sorry for how you feel about it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I did what I had to do to stay alive,” he says. “I had just gotten out of jail. I had nothing. I needed money. My fertility was the only thing of value I had but I was scared they wouldn’t let me donate with my criminal record, so I…” he hesitates, “I swiped my brother’s identity and signed up as him.”

“Your brother?”

“Brown hair, blue eyes. Harvard Law graduate. Layla the dalmatian…”

“I see.”

“I lied but I ate a few months of warm meals because of it. I don’t — and won’t — regret that. Trust me, down here on the bottom, others have done far worse.”

I shake my head. “Now you misunderstand.”

“I do?”

“This isn’t about the ethics of stealing food to survive,” I argue. “This is about a little girl — a human being — whose existence is now tainted because of your lie.”

“Tainted for who?” he asks. “For her? Or for you?”

I open my mouth to argue further but I stumble over my tongue. “I don’t know who you are.” I bite down. “I don’t know who fifty-percent of my daughter is anymore and that terrifies me.”

He shrugs. “What do you want to know?”

“What?”

“What do you want to know?” he repeats. “Ask me anything.”

I shake my head and scoff but he doesn’t move. He stands there, unblinking, waiting for me to ask him whatever I want.

Where do I even begin?

“How’s your health?” I stutter out.

He shifts a step back to lean against the banister with his hands in his jacket pockets. “Nothing worth noting,” he says. “Broke my arm when I was fourteen. Other than that, never had much reason to step into a hospital.”

“What about your family?” I ask. “Is there a history of heart disease or cancer?”

“No, none of that,” he answers. “Alcoholism may be an issue, but whose family doesn’t have a bit of that nowadays, am I right?”

“Mental illness?” I add, ignoring the joke.

“I had one uncle on my mother’s side who lived out of a whiskey bottle and jumped off a bridge,” he says. “Other than that, just a whole lot of social anxiety and a few freckles.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. My ancestors were from Western Europe. Irish and Scottish, mostly. My great, great grandparents came over on the Titanic, actually.”

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Yeah, they, uh…” He breathes a laugh. “They stuffed her dress with a pillow to make her look pregnant so they could sneak onto a lifeboat.”

I blink. “So, the lying bastard thing is genetic?”

“Possibly…” he says, smiling. “But I think that’s more of a nurture issue than a nature one, so your girl should be fine as long as you raise her right.”

“That’s…” I exhale. “Okay, then.”

Milo pushes off the banister. “Do you love your daughter, Detective?”

“Yes.”

“Would you trade her if you could?”

“No.”

“Then, here we are.” His shoulders bounce. “Anyway, I just wanted to say all that and make sure you know that if anything goes wrong with her, it won’t be because of me and my stupid scam. I’m not some time bomb you have to keep in the back of your mind because you’re scared I’ll suddenly go off one day and destroy your life. That’s not me. All right?”

I study his stupid, handsome face. Emotion bleeds from honest eyes but how much of that can I really trust, given what I know this guy is? Does any of that really matter, given what he’s saying is absolutely true?

My daughter is still the same perfect girl she was yesterday and she’ll be the same perfect girl tomorrow. That would be true whether I knew about this or not.

I exhale and nod. “All right.”

“I won’t take more of your time,” he says, turning away. He clears his throat. “Bye, Detective.”

“Bye,” I murmur.

He steps onto the lawn, partially disappearing into the shadows. My gut tugs at me, forcing me to say something that I second guess a half-dozen times before it spills out.

“Milo.”

He pauses. “Yeah?”

I shift on my toes. “Would you like to meet her?” I ask.

He inhales quickly, his eyes moving to the door behind me. “No,” he finally says. “No offense to the kid or anything.”

“None taken.” I wave a hand.

“My life is complicated enough right now as it is,” he adds.

I nod. “I get it.”

“Thanks, though.” He continues onto the sidewalk. “Oh—” He turns back around and points to his left. “Your neighbor in the blue house over there sells counterfeit iPods out of his truck to junior high kids. Just FYI. Since you’re raising a child here and whatnot. Good neighborhood otherwise. Brookline’s pretty nice.”

“Oh.” I glance down the street. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Milo walks out of reach of the porch lights and disappears onto the sidewalk with the rest of the shadows.

I walk back inside and close the door behind me. I lean against it, taking a long, smooth breath as I hold my head in my hand.

“Mommy?”

I look down at Charlotte in the hallway. My little girl. My perfect, little girl. I exhale away every second thought and doubt that’s plagued me over the last few hours.

Charlotte might be part Milo’s. But she’s all mine.

“Hey, honey,” I say, kneeling to discreetly slide my gun back into its holster. “You finished?”

She holds up her drawing and I smile at the blend of colors on the leaves. Not quite staying in the lines just yet but I don’t care. She’s still perfect.

“It looks so good, Charlotte.”

She grins, showing off her little teeth, along with the ever-so-tiny gap between the front two. I don’t have that. Milo doesn’t either — but did he before?

Just how much of him does she have?