I remember playing Resident Evil for about fifteen minutes while my mother spoke with Edmund downstairs. But the game wasn’t my thing. I was into Disney fantasies back then, not Japanese-style horror. Plus, it occurred to me that Edmund and my mother had been talking for a very long time. How long did it take to ask a woman to vacuum? I had taken my shoes off, so they didn’t hear me approaching the kitchen, but I heard them . . . They were talking about Nick.

“Let me get that file for you, Dad,” Travis says as he finally moves from his spot and quickly goes to his desk.

“No rush, Travis.” Edmund takes a small step forward, his voice getting a little louder. I glance down at the water bottle lying on the floor next to the desk, but Travis doesn’t seem to notice it. He pulls a key from an inside pocket of his suit and unlocks the bottom drawer of his desk. As he pulls out another fat manila envelope, I glance back at Edmund, my palms sweating, my mind drowning in memory.

“He loves you, I’m sure of it,” Edmund had said to my mother. “You need to fight for him. Do it publicly and do it aggressively. Confront his wife, let her know you won’t allow her or anyone else to take him away from you. Let it be known that Nick is yours and that crossing you in this matter would not be wise. Trust me, it’s the only thing she’ll understand and it’s the only way Nick will be able to grasp how strongly you feel about him. True love is always worth a battle.”

Beside me, Edmund crosses his arms over his chest, his smile fading slightly as he watches Travis close the drawer but neglect to lock it.

For a while the things Edmund said to my mother hadn’t meant much to me . . . It took years before I was able to look back at that moment and realize that Edmund had been planting the seeds of my mother’s self-destruction. He wanted her to make scenes. He wanted her to appear to be obsessive, unwilling to take no for an answer. He wanted everyone to see my mom as a poor man’s Glenn Close, ready to boil her lover’s rabbit. It made it that much easier to set her up.

It worked.

And now my mom’s dead.

Travis holds out the envelope for his father, who is now barely smiling at all. Travis notes this and swallows hard before walking around the desk and putting the envelope in Edmund’s hand.

“Thank you, Travis.” His tone is just slightly cooler. But then, in an instant, the smile is back, not quite as bright but certainly containing a practiced warmth. “Well, I’ll be going then.” He turns back to me. “Have we met before, Bell? You look . . . familiar.”