An IV was taped to the back of Mel’s hand. Harry touched his father’s fingers. Flesh bulged slightly around the wedding ring on his left hand. The joints of his fingers were thickened, the skin tough from years of manipulating a wheelchair.

The murder plan that Harry had hatched just hours before suddenly seemed surreal. Crazy, even.

His father, lying in this bed, in this room, was real. Not the shadowy blackmailer who taunted him on wireless airwaves. Not the man who drank a bottle of scotch, and planned to murder his tormenter with a computer cord.

That man was not real. He was not the son of the man lying in this bed. He was not the Honorable Harry Owen, Member of Parliament. He was not a member of the Nova Scotia bar.

He was not the son of the woman who had taught him to respect his elders, to stand up for the vulnerable, to always obey the law. Tears choked his throat.

She stood at the stove, her long black hair swept up in a knot at the back of her head, her eyes half-closed as she inhaled the fragrant curry. She added a bit more of coriander. Then she smiled. Offered him a spoonful. “You tell me what it needs, Harry.”

It needs you to make it, Ma. It needs you to frown in concentration until it tastes the way your own mother made it. It needs you to smile when we declare it delicious. That is what it needs.

That is what I need.

That is what Dad needs.

His father had been through hell. There was no other way to describe it. And if his son were arrested for murder, it would merely add another notch to the tragedies of the Owen family.

Harry rested his cheek on his father’s hand. “Dad, please forgive me.”

“Harry.”

It wasn’t his father who spoke his name.

He lifted his face from his father’s hand. Randall Barrett stood several feet away from him. How long had he been standing there? “What’re you doing here?”

His lawyer gave an awkward shrug. “Mel is also my client. I wanted to keep an eye on things.”

“You spent the night here?”

Randall shrugged again. “I thought I’d take a shift until you felt well enough to come.”

Read: until you slept off the booze.

Harry felt shame, gratitude—and resentment that his lawyer had done the right thing while Harry ignored his father’s pleas.

“Dad’s in bad shape.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure how much more he can take. What will happen to him after the surgery?”

Randall exhaled. “At some point your father will be arraigned, and we will ask for bail. Then, we will see what the Crown offers us.”

“Do you know Hillcroft?”