Like everyone else, he assumes I’m not smart enough or tough enough to handle the truth. The whole thing pisses me off—that he knew my dad, that they met in secret, that it all happened right under my nose.

“Did you know the Swarm was planning to attack him?”

“No.” The word is hard. His nostrils flare. “I knew there would be an attack. I had no idea it would be on him.” His eyes search the floor. He shakes his head and exhales. The skin is so tight against his knuckles, I can make out each bone and muscle beneath its almost translucent surface. Ryan closes his eyes like it’s some deliberate, meditative reaction before leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “And if I did,” he says, “I would have warned him.” His eyes look into mine like they share the pain of my father’s death. “Your dad meant a lot to me.”

I clench my teeth. Swallow. I’m so used to people slandering him when they talk about him.

For the first few weeks after his death, the city honored my dad as one of the county’s best chief prosecutors, who put away terrorists, drug traffickers, contract murderers. But then the media’s focus turned bitter. It started with a cheap shot: someone called his courtroom flair sanctimonious. Then like an infectious disease, the smear campaign spread. Critics said the evidence against Morrell was circumstantial. My dad was called a media hog who only pursued the case for the notoriety, citing his Porsche, his tailored suits, and his designer shoes as evidence. He was blamed for Morrell’s death and defamed until his friends and coworkers distanced themselves from his memory, leaving no one left to defend him but me and my mom.

“He meant a lot to me too.” The words come out garbled and sad.

Ryan nods like he understands, without saying anything artificial to cheer me up or make me feel better like everyone else tries to do any time my dad is mentioned.

It rips at my chest like the picking of an open wound—how much I miss my dad, how lonely I’ve been since his death, how more than anything I want the people responsible for his murder to rot in prison for the rest of their evil, horrible lives.

An image of myself slumped in this same chair after my father’s death flashes through my mind. My arms at my sides in a state of surrender, like some dark force had drained me of energy and life. I push it away, take a deep breath, and bury the pain like always.

Ryan’s foot brushes against my injured one and lingers. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“How did I end up on the mayor’s dock?”