It burned off the last of the fog.

I thought about my father teaching a small girl to spot the exits.

I thought about my mother’s pearls in the safe at home.

I thought: they looked at me and they saw a soft, rich, trusting thing, a fragile little heiress who’d sign anything and swallow anything and drown quietly when she was told to. They had built their entire plan on that woman.

They had never met the one my father actually raised.