“Yes.” My father had always wanted a son who would show off his superiority to the world. I was an embarrassment.

“The straw that broke the camel’s back was when Nastya took you on that little trip through Alsace for your twentieth birthday. Your father lost his mind when you told him you got married. He called me, ranting about this Schlampe trapping his son. I told him to calm down, that the marriage wasn’t even valid. But he took it like a shot across the bow. He thought Nastya—Mirelle—had her hooks in you too deep.”

“What about my sister? What was her role in all of this?”

“Juliet?” Klaus asked with surprise. “What role would she have? She was still a student then. If she knew of Mirelle, it was only what you or your father told her.”

“But Juliet was on the plane that took me to rehab . . .” As the words tumbled out of my mouth, I remembered what she’d said that night. You ruined my week in Paris, you stupid piece of shit. I wish you were dead. It dawned on me that nothing about the night Mirelle was killed was accidental. Juliet was in Europe because our father had flown her there. She had likely thought it a treat, a reward for her good grades. It was my father who’d had other plans.

“You’re telling me that my father had Mirelle killed,” I said quietly.

“To be clear, I am not your father’s confessor. He never made a direct admission of guilt to me.”

“But you know him. You put the story together.”

“He didn’t tell me what he was going to do. I would never have allowed it.” Klaus stared into his glass. “It wasn’t the first job Nastya did for me. I had to tell her parents she was dead. It was . . .” His voice trailed off. “Your father broke our relationship. I couldn’t trust him anymore. Say what you will about the Stasi; we had rules. Your father doesn’t.”

“My father didn’t just murder her. He framed me for it. He made me believe I was a killer.” The idea was new and raw in my mind. I’d always had an uneasy relationship with my father, but my main antagonist had always been Juliet. I had blamed her for every awful thing. In my mind, she had fangs and horns and a forked tongue. How many times had I complained to my father about how evil she was, only to have him agree with me? It was as if he wanted me to hate my sister.