Cal's smile showcased every emotion he was feeling: joy, relief, complete and utter triumph, and intense curiosity. He was just as interested in her questions for him as in her answers. He could tell from her expression that she was already regretting agreeing to this proposal. Too damn bad. He rearranged his face to show bland expectation and slouched in his chair. "You go first. Give it your best shot."

"Don't even try it, Cal. You are so incredibly smug about this. Don't try to play innocent now."

"I'm just waiting for a question to answer, Dr. Foster."

She took a sip of ginger ale while she thought. "Have you ever heard from your father? Tried to find him? Know where he is?"

He hid a smile while he took a sip of coffee. Classic Gillian. He knew she'd tread cautiously, start slowly. She'd enter the pool from the shallow end, trying to minimize the ripples. Now he – he liked to jump off the high dive and then check for water. This would be an interesting morning.

"Don't know. Don't care." Her look was concerned, but questioning. "I really don't care, Gillian. You want to know about my childhood and his place in it? His place was gone." He paused. "It's still hard to talk about her."

"We don't have to do this, Cal."

"You're not going to get off that easily, love. And if this is the price I have to pay, I'll do it willingly. My dad met my mum shortly after her parents died. She lost them young. She had a little inheritance from them. It didn't make her rich, but it was the house she loved and enough for the nice, quiet life she wanted for herself. Then my dad showed up. Full of big promises and big plans. He wined her and dined her and got her pregnant with me. She was anxious for a family, thought we'd all be happy. Right after they married, he showed his true self. He spent my childhood spending her money while destroying any and all self esteem she may have had. Suddenly she was working two jobs trying to support the wanker while he kept telling her she wasn't good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, interesting enough to keep him from chasing anything else in a skirt. When he had bled her dry, he took off with a blonde twat who had money to spend and legs to spread. Not before stealing money from Mum's employers and getting her fired."

He slowly set down his coffee cup before he broke it. "It was the first time she needed to be hospitalized for anxiety and depression. I was nine. He was gone, and she had just learned of all his outstanding debts people now looked to her to pay. She had to sell the little house she grew up in, and after everything was settled we moved to a cramped, ugly flat in a very different part of town." He leaned forward, hands together in his lap. "When they took her away to hospital, I thought I would end up in foster care. That's when the Marsh family came forward. They were the family next door. We hadn't lived there long, but Terry and I had started hanging out together," he chuckled, "sneaking cigarettes from his dad so we could learn how to smoke. Mrs. Marsh had befriended my mum. They had less than we did – and more people to take care of – but they took me in, no questions asked. Every time my mum had problems. No questions asked. Incredible family." He looked away.

"How did you end up at Oxford?"

"Oh, that? Well, I was a bit of a screw-up in school and in the community. Didn't take too long to establish my reputation. Wasn't as charming then as I am now. Written off as a delinquent. Lost cause. Until one day when Mrs. Marsh found me with a book. I was twelve and had stolen it from the library." His smile was wry. ""Cause why not steal a book you can borrow for free? She was quite a yeller, Mrs. Marsh was, but while she yelled she also noticed it was a university psychology textbook. She knew I was trying to understand what was happening to my mum. She took it from me and asked me questions about it. Gave me a quiz from the back of a chapter. Then, after she marched me back to the library and signed me up for volunteer work there as punishment, she checked the book out for me and marched me over to the state school. She forced them to test me, demanded on pain of death that I do my best, and suddenly my classes were changed so that I could be 'challenged.' Passed my A-levels with distinction and went to Oxford on scholarship. And poker winnings." He grinned.

"So when your mother mentioned your dad's birthday on the film?"

He immediately sobered. "All utter crap. He'd been long gone for years." He rubbed his face. "I should have seen it coming. She was in agony."

She started to get up, but he held up his hand to keep her at bay. Slowly she sat down again. "I know you don't like it when I say this, Cal: It wasn't your fault." He nodded, but she knew it was more in recognition that she spoke than in agreement with her assessment. "Sometimes an absentee father will contact his children when they are adults. Yours didn't?"

Cal slouched back in the chair again. He rubbed his hand over his face. "When I published my first book I got a letter from him. Sloppy, messy letter all about how he wanted another chance to have a relationship with me. Blamed his abandonment all on her, then mentioned how well I must be doing with the book and how I could afford a few pounds to help him get on his feet. I told him to go . . ." He looked at her. "Well, I told him what he could do with himself. Never heard from him again."

"And the proceeds from your first book?"

"All in trust for the Marsh family. No matter how badly Terry screws up, his family and he will always have a place to live and a way to put food on the table." He sighed, then grinned with a devilish glint in his eye. "My turn."

Now it was Gillian's turn to sigh. She knew she was on the precipice. This was a dangerous moment, but she had navigated her way through many such moments with Cal. She hoped she could do it again.

He found a position where he could best see her face. "So your dad smacked you around when he was drunk, yeah?"

She groaned, "Cal, your sensitivity and way with words are inspiring."

He smiled slightly, "Sorry."

"What makes you ask that?"

"Are you going to try deflecting every question to waste time? We've got all day, love, so don't think it will help you."

"You said I talked during the plane ride home. I don't remember what I said. You have an advantage."

"I always have an advantage." His arrogant smile was classic Cal.

"Cal." Only she could make his name multi-syllabic.

"You mentioned your dad on the plane. Mentioned he drank. You had nightmares last night. Said his name a couple of times."

"Oh." She drew in a deep breath. "To answer your question: No, he didn't hit me when he was drunk. He hit me when he couldn't drink."

"Explain yourself, love."

"When my father drank, he blocked out the rest of the world. Sometimes I needed him to see me. So I'd take the bottle of whatever he brought home that night and hide it. Or dump it. That was not appreciated."

His eyes narrowed. "So he'd hit you."

She nodded. "Hit me for disobeying. Slap me across the cheek for talking back. Those kinds of things. Nothing too major. Sometimes he had a belt or a shoe. Whatever was handy. At the time I just wanted him to pay any attention to me. You know children – even negative attention is better than no attention. And those were the only two options I thought available to me when I was six, seven, eight."

"That makes sense then."

"Hmm?"

"You are by far the fastest student of micro-expressions I've ever taught, but you're not a natural."

"No, I'm not."

"Well, naturals tend to be abuse victims." She flashed – what was that? – at his comment. "They become naturals because they want to read expressions to avoid the beatings. You were interested in his expressions, but you weren't trying to evade the monster."

She shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know that I would call him a monster, Cal. You know, it wasn't that often. I survived it and made a good life for myself, which is more than a lot of people can say. And he's in recovery now. Trying to make amends."

"What about your mum?"

"She made excuses for him. He was stressed from work. He was tired. I shouldn't antagonize him. She minimized what he did." Just like you're doing, he thought darkly. "She was a litany of reasons why I should forgive him. Still is."

"So she didn't even try to protect you?"

"No, not really. She was too busy enabling him to take care of me."

"When did your dad get sober?"

"Sometime after I left home."

She flashed – what was that? He leaned forward. "College must have been a safe haven after your childhood."

"Yeah, it was."

As soon as she spoke she knew she had made a mistake. She watched his whole body change. He had been showing intense interest before, but now he was a tight coil of pure determination. Damn. What had she done? What clue did she give him? The one place she didn't want to go and she might as well have given him a ticket and drawn him a map. From the look on his face, he would want a guided tour. Damn. He was a predator now. This is what a gazelle feels like when it sees the tiger in pursuit, she thought. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. And for good measure – Damn. She knew she had been too tired to tangle with him.

She watched him mentally run through every conversation they had ever had. She knew what he was doing: he was registering every strange expression she might have given him over the years, expressions that by themselves meant nothing, but put together might reveal everything. Maybe a distraction? It wouldn't work, she knew, but she had to try something. "My turn now, Cal. I've got a question about Zoe."

"No, Gillian. It's still my turn."

"I think . . ."

"No, Gillian."

"Cal, it's my turn." Her voice remained calm, her face placid. Only her eyes, if you looked really closely, revealed her strain. Anyone else wouldn't notice a problem, would let it go. But he wasn't anyone else. He was Cal Lightman. He couldn't let anything go. Not about her.

"No, Gillian."

"Cal. I'm tired. I don't feel well. My headache is back. I want to stop."

"You know I can't do that, love."

She knew the moment it all came together. His quick intake of breath, his widened and then narrowed eyes, his incredulous expression. He wasn't sure he was right, but she knew he probably was. She didn't want this. She wanted to leave, but his stare pinned her down. "Cal, don't. Please."

His eyes never left hers. He knew how much she hated what was about to happen. You could barely tell that by looking at her, but he lived in "barely." "Barely" was his bread and butter.

"Oh, love, I would give anything if I didn't have to, but you know me better than that."

She could sense him ready to pounce. Like the tiger. She knew he would eat her alive. Like the gazelle.

"Did your dad do anything else to you?"

She was cautiously optimistic. She might have a chance to get through this now. "No, Cal. Dad hit me sometimes when I was a child. That's all."

He leaned in even closer, his eyes dark and focused. On her. "Someone else then. . . . Why can't you have children, Gill?"

Damn.