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History revised reputations with the benefit of information people at the time didn't necessarily have.

Could someone make it look bad? Absolutely.

Jesus Christ, yes.

A photograph here.

A donation there.

A board membership.

A handshake.

Strip away context, string them together under an inflammatory headline, and Garrison Knight could be made to look like he personally financed half the world's sins.

But facts don't support that conclusion.

Not the ones I can find.

I lean back.

“Oh, Mitchell.”

Now I understand.

Not what Myrna thinks I should understand.

Something else.

This is what he's afraid of. Not necessarily a secret.

A narrative.

The kind built out of technically accurate facts arranged dishonestly.

Garrison Knight knew powerful people. Some of those people did terrible things. That doesn't mean Garrison participated in those things.

Association isn't complicity. A photograph isn't an endorsement. A dinner isn't a conspiracy. And historical context matters.

I rub both hands over my face. I should feel relieved.

Instead, my chest aches.

Because Myrna was right about one thing.

Mitchell knew I was looking into him, his past, and he didn't tell me about this.

My phone remains stubbornly silent.

By seven, I text him.

Me:

Are you coming home?

Home.

I stare at the word.