“About that, fine. But not about the night Mirelle died,” I said. “You’re going to tell me the full story.”

“You may find this hard to believe, but I had absolutely nothing to do with that.”

“You’re right—I find that impossible to believe.” I shifted in my seat. “You and my father were always partners in crime.”

“Not in that girl’s death, Theo.” He leaned forward. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering everything on the menu. It’s all vegetarian—don’t laugh, I haven’t eaten meat in over a year. Let them bring us some wine, and then we’ll talk.”

Klaus always had been a control freak, but I couldn’t care less about the food or drink. “As long as you answer my questions, I don’t care what’s on the menu.”

The table service took a moment, with a waiter opening a bottle of riesling. Then he was gone, and Klaus lifted his glass.

“To the memories of those we’ve lost,” Klaus said.

We tapped glasses.

“I’m going to tell you what I know, and I want you to fill in the blanks,” I said. “I’ve always avoided thinking about Mirelle because of the horrific way her life ended. But once I started remembering—and looking at the facts in the cold, hard light of day—it all smacked of a setup. Mirelle just landed on my doorstep one day. That wasn’t an accident. What I want to know is, how deeply were you involved?”

He met my eyes. “We say we wish to know dark secrets, Theo, but we rarely mean it. The truth is often so ugly we can’t look it in the face.”

“I need to know what happened.”

“If you are certain, then. Your suspicion is correct, Theo: I hired her.”

“Hired? She was a prostitute?”

“She was an aspiring actress with a sideline as a dominatrix,” Klaus said. “You had a type. Your father was hysterical about the clubs you frequented. About all the drugs. I kept telling him you needed your freedom, that you’d come to your senses eventually. But your father insisted. That’s why I hired Nastya.”

“Who?”

“You knew her as Mirelle. She was a Russian girl. She was talented with languages, good with accents. You never imagined she wasn’t French, did you?”

“No,” I admitted.

“I knew she was what you needed just then,” Klaus said. “And it worked. You stopped going to those clubs. You used drugs, but not as much. Things were looking up. At least, I thought they were.”

“What happened?”

“Your father was angry. He was paying this girl a lot of money, plus footing the bill for her apartment. He didn’t want simply an improvement; he wanted . . . everything to be his way.” Klaus snapped his fingers. “He wanted you to be his creature. You understand?”