“Son, you seem to be unaware of several cold, hard facts,” he said at long last. “I know you lied to the police. You pretended you weren’t in New York, when I know you were.” He took a drink and carried his tumbler of scotch back to his desk.

“Look, Caroline had a heart condition. The police said there was nothing suspicious about her death. I don’t even know what you’re trying to accuse me of.”

“I’m not saying you did anything to Caroline.” He took a drink. “But you lied to the police, and I fear that will come back to haunt us. You told them you were flying back from Bangkok, but they can check on facts like that.”

I stood there, breathing hard. He was right. It had been stupid of me to lie to the police about something so basic.

“Look, Caroline was like a daughter to me. But you’re my flesh and blood. I want to help you if I can. Just tell me the truth. Were you seeing another woman? No judgments, son. I just think it’s better if I know what we’re dealing with.”

There was menace swimming under his words, circling like a shark. I had seen another woman, but not in the salacious way my father meant.

“I don’t need help,” I said.

“Maybe you don’t. But I’m here for you, son. I hope you know that.”

He said it so kindly. If anyone had been listening, they would’ve given him a father-of-the-year medal. But I’d accepted his help before, and I knew that he always expected an exponential return on whatever he gave. If he had his way, I’d quit my work and rejoin him at the company; he’d made it clear, many times, that was his dream for me. I’d tried to work in the family business and had only proven to myself that I didn’t want to be involved.

“I should go,” I said.

“Theo, I saw your hand.”

I glanced at my left hand, which I’d thrust into candle flames at the church. The palm was red and blistered, but I wasn’t in any mood to explain.

“I noticed it the day Caroline died,” my father added. That got my attention. He wasn’t talking about the burn, but the cut on my right hand. It hadn’t been a deliberate injury.

“What about it?” I asked. It was mostly healed up, though still discolored.

“There was broken wood and glass at your house,” he said. “Don’t worry, I cleaned it up. But Theo . . . there was some blood.”

I wasn’t about to tell him the truth about what had happened. “I’ve been having nightmares again,” I said quickly.