Shrugging off his hold, I raise both arms and cross them over my ball cap. It’s sheer self-protection, followed immediately by the idea that I should return to New York and forget I’d ever come. But there’s no comfort in that option. I won’t be able to forget. There’s no going back. The cat’s out of the bag.

“Ask your father,” Jack says.

I look at him then. And oh, yes, his eyes are seal gray, which means kingly, which means imperative. I take one breath, then another, and fold my arms, putting my hands where his had been moments before. When I feel sufficiently calmed, I say, “I suggested that to him. Not about whether he’s my father. But whether I could write things down for him so he doesn’t forget. I figured I could slip in personal questions and he wouldn’t notice the difference. He looked like he was considering it, then he just walked away. I didn’t want to push.”

“Maybe you should.”

“And if that makes him shut down completely? Then I’ll be nowhere.” I see the look on his face and know exactly what he’s thinking. “Okay. Yup. You’re right. We’re nowhere now. But there’s a way to do this, and there’s a way to do this—and do not,” I warn softly, “tell me I need to take a stand. This isn’t indecision, Jack. It’s diplomacy. It’s a strategic plan. If I push too hard, my father will know exactly why I’m pushing. Believe me, I’ll keep at him, especially now that I know he knows and he knows I know, or he did for a few minutes there—and especially since I now have three names permanently embedded in my mind, thank you, John Sabathian.” In my distress, I stumble on a different thought. “He said he hasn’t told Anne what he has. Should I?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because we’ve argued about it before. I say Alzheimer’s, she says old age. We’ve gone back and forth ad infinitum. If I say Dad confirms it, she’ll say I’m lying.”

“Anne?” he asks in disbelief. “Sunny Side Up Anne? She thinks me the liar, not you.”