She doesn’t want to hate him. It’s just easier this way.

Because he’s here — a constant presence; he’s a real, tangible human she can interact with, hold responsible.

Nina Myers isn’t. She’s in federal custody in a nameless maximum-security facility, more of a vague, murderous caricature than the woman who killed her mother.

Still, she really doesn’t want to hate her father. She knows it wasn’t his fault. The rational part of her knows he tried to save them both.

But he didn’t. For all his efforts, he didn’t.

So it’s easier this way — to hold him accountable, blame him for her mom’s death.

When the front door opens and closes and she hears the muted jangle of his keys as he tosses them on the kitchen counter, her pencil shakes in her hand. Her stomach twists. And there it is again. It’s back — the anger she’s tried so hard to stifle for the past two weeks, since the funeral, returns.

She swallows hard.

Please just leave me alone.

But his footsteps are approaching, quiet on the thick carpet in the hallway.

“Kim?”

She stiffens at the sound of his voice, muffled through her bedroom door. She clenches her jaw against the gentle rap of his knuckles on the wood.

“I’m busy,” she calls, the words short, clipped. I don’t want to talk to you.

“Sweetheart, this’ll only take a second.”

Liar. “Come in,” she sighs, closing her notebook and sitting up on the unmade bed.

The door swings open and he steps inside. His eyes sweep her messy room, taking in the cluttered desk and the half-eaten cheese sandwich on a forgotten plate next to her computer.

“Hey,” he says simply, standing in the doorway.

That’s the best you can do? She raises her eyebrows. “What is it?”

His pale blue eyes dim a little at her obvious impatience. “I just wanted to check on you.”

“Well, you checked — I’m fine.”

He ducks his head, a hesitant half-smile turning up one corner of his mouth. “Yeah.”

Get out. She blows out a short, frustrated breath. “Dad, what do you want?”

He flinches, and for a half-second, she regrets her harsh tone.

“I — ” He falters and runs a hand through his blond hair. “Kim, I’m so sorry.”

She stares down at her rumpled comforter, picking at a loose thread.

He sighs; a quiet, defeated sound. “Kim — ”

“Don’t,” she bristles, lifting her eyes. I’m not going to feel sorry for you. I won’t.

“Sweetheart — ”

Anger surges through her. “You can’t — don’t call me that,” she stammers, her voice shaking. You’re not allowed. Not now. Not ever.

He frowns and steps toward her. “Kim — ”

“No,” she insists, her gaze hardening.

He freezes, his eyes pleading. “Please — ”

I can’t forgive you. Not yet. “Dad, don’t.”

She’s wounded him, she can tell, and cold satisfaction coils in the pit of her stomach. She wants to hurt him, cut him with words he doesn’t expect. The realization makes her conscience burn with shame.

But her anger overwhelms the guilt, intensifying as he stands in the threshold of her room, staring at her silently with sadness and a strange kind of acceptance.

“I’m not going to school tomorrow,” she blurts, watching his face for a reaction.

He cocks his head slightly. “Why?”

“It’s too hard.”

“But — ”

“All the kids keep coming up to me, wanting to talk about — about you, about what they saw on the news. They want to talk about my father, the hero, the guy who saved Senator Palmer’s life twice.” She shakes her head in disgust. Some hero.

He swallows. “Honey, I know you’re upset — ”

“Upset? She’s dead, Dad.”

“Kim — ”

“Stop.” Tears prickle behind her narrowed eyes and her lungs are on fire; she can’t seem to draw in enough air and it’s all his fault. “Mom died because you weren’t there — you didn’t — ”

His gaze drops to the carpet and he bows his head. “I know,” he whispers.

“No. No, you don’t,” she argues, rage blossoming bright and hot in the center of her chest.

This time, she doesn’t want to control it. She wants to lash out, give voice to all the frustration that’s been building for the last two weeks, since that awful night at CTU.

“You don’t know what that day was like for us. You weren’t there!” She’s talking too fast and her room is suddenly too small to hold them both. She stands, shoulders straight, knees locked. “Mom was so brave — so, so brave — she was the real hero, Dad.” The words tumble out of her mouth, rapid and hard and caustic, like a fountain of bile. “She kept me safe when you couldn’t. She protected me, she let that bastard rape her to protect me — ”

His head jerks up. “What?”

Her eyes widen. Oh god. She hadn’t meant to say that.

He steps closer, frantically searching her features, his face pale.

Kim’s anger vanishes, replaced by panic. It’s clawing up her stomach, wrapping around her rib cage, squeezing her insides.

I didn’t mean — oh god, I never meant to say that —

“Kim?” His voice is so quiet, so desperate, she wonders if she imagined it.

Her throat is too tight, too dry. “Dad,” she chokes, unable to force out another syllable.

His shoulders slump, and she suddenly sees just how exhausted and vulnerable he looks.

But she can’t take the words back. The one thing that could destroy him, the one thing she should’ve never said — and she’s done it, wrecked him, because she was too angry to care.

Her vision blurs with unshed tears.

I’m sorry. Daddy, I’m sorry.

But she can’t make her voice work. And she can’t take it back.

She’d give anything to take it back.

I’m sorry.

She watches him back out of the room, his blue eyes unreadable.

I’m sorry.

He closes her door with a quiet click, and she covers her mouth with an unsteady hand, staring sightlessly at the silver knob.

Oh god, I’m so sorry.

But she can’t take it back.

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