When I got back to my room, I saw that Dad had called. He left a message, wondering where I was. I couldn’t talk to him. I sent him a text.

I took a road trip with a friend. In Vegas. Be home tomorrow late.

He immediately texted back: Vegas??? We need to talk?

I sent a laughing emoji back at him, and then, thinking it over, followed that immediately with: Just for fun. No need to talk.

Translation: Please, for the love of God, do not make me talk. With all that had come out of my mouth this evening, I was afraid of what I might say if I was pressed to talk.

I felt guilty taking off my expensive clothes. I’d hardly worn them at all, and Chris didn’t have the kind of money to just go throwing it away like that. I hung my things in the closet, thinking I would leave them there. Maybe the housekeeper and I were the same size. Maybe she could sell them. It didn’t matter. I was much more tees and jeans than silk and shimmer. I unrolled a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt from my backpack and put them on, then climbed into bed and thumbed the TV on.

I was forty minutes into a movie that I couldn’t pay attention to when there was a knock at my door.

Chris.

I opened the door and he held out a Styrofoam box for me to take. My stomach growled. Now that my nerves had calmed, I actually was a little hungry.

“Thanks,” I said. “Sorry I left. I just . . .” I didn’t know how to finish. “Should we meet tomorrow at ten? Go over to Angry Elephant then?”

“Can I come in?” he asked.

I didn’t want him to. Actually, I wanted to rewind. To go back to dinner and cram all the words back into my mouth. Then he could come in. You can’t avoid him forever, Nikki. You have to ride in a car with him for half a day tomorrow. I stepped aside.

“You should put that in the fridge,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket. He opened the closet and hung it next to my clothes. I pretended I didn’t see him pause to touch the fabric of my shirt. It was cloth. Just cloth. But somehow the gesture felt intimate. “Can I sit?”

I nodded and stepped around him to put the box in the refrigerator. I turned off the TV and sat on the bed, pulling myself up so I was sitting cross-legged on the mattress. He sat in the easy chair next to the bed and leaned forward, his fingers pressed together between his knees, like he was getting ready to pray.

“You think your dad might be guilty,” he said. Quietly, gently.

I nodded.

“How long have you thought this?”

“A few months. Before Tesori Antico.”