handled an emotional and complicated topic.” I don’t want to let her say anything nice to me, because I don’t want to have to thank her for it. But my mother instilled in me a politeness that kicks in when I least expect it. “Thank you.” “When I read it, I suspected that you would do a beautiful job with my story.” “Because of one small piece I wrote?” “Because you're talented, and if anyone could understand the complexities of who I am and what I’ve done, it was probably you. And the more I’ve gotten to know you, the more I know I was right. Whatever book you write about me, it will not have easy answers. But it will, I predict, be unflinching. I wanted to give you that letter, and I wanted you to write my story, because I believe you to be the very best person for the job.” “So you put me through all this to assuage your guilt and make sure you got the book about your life that you wanted?” Evelyn shakes her head, ready to correct me, but I’m not done. “It’s amazing, really. How self-interested you can be. That even now, even when you appear to want to redeem yourself, it’s still about you.” Evelyn puts up her hand. “Don’t act like you haven’t benefited from this. You’ve been a willing participant here. You wanted the story. You took advantage—deftly and smartly, I might add—of the position I put you in.” “Evelyn, seriously,” I say. “Cut the crap.” “You don’t want the story?” Evelyn asks, challenging me. “If you don’t want it, don’t take it. Let my story die with me. That is just fine.” I am quiet, unsure how to respond, unsure how I want to respond. Evelyn puts out her hand, expectantly. She’s not going to let the suggestion be hypothetical. It’s not rhetorical. It demands an answer. “Go ahead,” she says. “Get your notes and the recordings. We can burn them all right now.” I don’t move, despite the fact that she gives me ample time to do so. “T didn’t think so,” she says.