“Mom?” I sit on the edge of my bed to step into the black flats we bought for my dad’s funeral. It’s weird to be wearing them again, especially for another funeral. Especially for this funeral.

“Yes?”

“Was Dad a thief?”

“What?” She frowns, clearly caught off guard. “Why would you ask that?”

“I know he was arrested a couple of months before he died. Penn told me. It was in the paper.”

My mother sighs as she steps into the room and leans against the top of my dresser, arms crossed over her chest. “Prescription drug fraud. He was arrested for asking two different doctors to prescribe the same painkiller within a thirty-day period, without disclosing the first prescription to the second doctor.”

“That’s it? He didn’t forge a prescription? Steal a doctor’s pad, or something?”

“No. He asked an emergency room physician to write him a prescription for pills his general practitioner had already prescribed. Which shouldn’t have happened in the first place. The ER doctor checked with the GP, then she called the police. But the charges were dropped.”

“Why?”

My mother holds my gaze. “Ask me what you really want to know, Beckett. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors.”

I exhale slowly. “Did you do it? Did you get the charges dropped?”

“Did I break the law to help your father? No. I couldn’t have, even if I’d wanted to. And the truth is that I did want to. There were times when I would have done anything to help him, if I could. But I had nothing to do with that. The DA dropped the charges because they were for a Class A misdemeanor, and his plate was full of felonies. And because he’s a vet, himself. He knew what your father went through. What he was still going through. And because your dad promised to go back into rehab. He never got a chance, though. There was a waiting list at the only one we could afford, so he tried to get clean on his own. And I tried to help. But …”

“But it was too hard.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s as good an explanation as any.”

“And it’s more than we’re ever going to get about the rest of this,” I say with a glance down at my funeral clothes.

“With any luck, it’s almost over. The case is closed. That poor baby is about to get a proper burial. Maybe we can all move on.”

She’s not just talking about Lullaby Doe. She’s talking about my father. Maybe we can all move on from Dad and from the ripple effect his decisions have had in our lives, even seven months after he died.

“But don’t … Don’t you want to know?” Because I want to know. “Who she is, I mean? The mother?”