“Me?” Dean couldn’t have sounded more incredulous if he’d tried. “What else is there to say?”

What was there to say?

“I don’t care.” My breath was still ragged from running. I was saying this wrong. “Your father—it doesn’t change who you are.”

“What I am,” he corrected. “And yes, it does. Why don’t you go ask Sloane what the statistics say about psychopathy and heredity? And then why don’t you ask her what they say about growing up in an environment where it’s the only thing you know.”

“I don’t care about the statistics,” I said. “We’re partners. We work together. You knew I was going to find out. You could have told me.”

“We’re not partners.”

The words hurt me—and he meant for them to.”