Why, Nikki? Why keep so many secrets from him? Still keeping Chris at arm’s length? Why? Don’t trust him? Don’t think he’ll trust you?

Fuck that. It was personal. That was why. The only reason why. It was personal and I wanted to be alone when I read it. Period.

And I supposed that was because part of me didn’t know how I would handle it if I found out my dad was the murderer. As tough as I wanted to believe myself to be, I didn’t know if I was tough enough to accept that kind of information. If it did me in, I didn’t want anyone there to see it. Not even Chris.

I hugged the envelope around my middle. “What time today?”

He shut the car door. “Three o’clock? That give you enough time?”

“Sure.”

More than enough time to find out if my dad was a murderer.

11

I STOOD IN my bathroom, palms pressed flat on the countertop, leaning over the envelope, staring at it. Fuzzy tangerine name, ringed with yellow, the whole envelope shading over into smooth slate, then rippling into asphalt gray and black. So many emotions. So many fears.

Did I really want to do this?

He had raised me. Alone. He had taken good care of me, even if he was a little more of a semi-interested roommate than a dad for most of my life. He’d tried. Until I’d found that box, and those photos with Bill Hollis in them—the ones that disappeared—I never would have even considered that my dad would be capable of hurting anyone. No way would I have considered he could hurt the love of his life. I couldn’t believe I was considering it now.

My mind swirled around so many possibilities. It was an accident. It was revenge. It was rage. He’d found out about Hollywood Dreams. About Bill Hollis. About Peyton. He’d tried to be calm and rational. But his love for her was so fierce. A love that fierce could turn into rage without meaning to, right?

I couldn’t open the envelope. My hands shook every time I touched it. My heart pounded so hard I felt breathless. Opening this envelope could change everything.

Wasn’t that the point, though? Opening this envelope could change everything. It could solve everything. Every question I had. Gone. Finally.

I took a deep breath, made sure the bathroom door was locked, sat on the floor with the envelope, opened it, and pulled out the file.

Dad had been a suspect all right. There was his name, our address, a mug shot, Dad’s eyes looking bloodshot and saggy, the tip of his nose red, his hair dirty-looking and mussed. I flipped through the pages, swimming through words and passages that looked important but I couldn’t quite absorb.

No alibi.

Murder weapon in kitchen.

Disputes.