“Emily,” he breathed, reaching to pull me into a hug.

I stood and put a flat hand against his chest, stopping him dead. “Sit down, Thomas. Let’s not make a scene.”

His smile flickered before the politician’s mask slid back into place. He sat and signaled the waiter for a macchiato.

“You look beautiful,” he said. “You’ve done so well. Karen and Megan are thrilled. Megan’s a junior VP at a marketing firm now, you know. We’d love for you to come to dinner.”

“Cut the crap, Thomas,” I said, my voice low and icy. “You didn’t contact me for ten years. You didn’t check whether I lived or died when I relapsed at sixteen.”

“I know you’re running for Mayor. I know your campaign needs a PR miracle. Tell me exactly why you’re sitting across from me.”