I looked over Atlas’s shoulder, into Cricket’s living room, and back, further, into the past. And I saw my father, standing before a crowd, glass of wine in hand, ready to toast. He had placed himself by the fireplace in our sitting room in P, taller than most, his smile broad, appearing less tipsy than he actually was. Go, Cricket told Wallis and me. Go, get up there. Wallis must’ve been in high school; she clasped my hand as we joined our father. I’m going to be brief, he said, wrapping his arm around Wallis’s shoulder, drawing her into his side and away from mine. She was delighted and leaned into him as I stood there, awkwardly, inspected, without a shield. I just want to say how terrific it is to have the gang all here for our annual farewell to summer party. I’m preaching to the choir here, but we are going to have quite the fall. I find myself up for election, again. It seems like just yesterday I was asking you all for donations.

Probably because it was yesterday! someone shouted. Laughter.

I see some of you are already pulling out your checkbooks, and that tells me I can wrap it up. My talented daughter Wallis will play the piano for us next. And Daisy will go around with the basket for the alms. Just kidding! Look at Daisy’s face. Oh, I scared her. Anyway, cheers—to all of you, my dear friends. Drink, eat, and give generously.

Gregory had spent his career asking people for money. But he’d really been stealing it, even then.

My friend—my Atlas—watched as I slid down the cabinets to Cricket’s cold kitchen floor, pulled my knees to my chest, and laid down my cheek. “We won’t ever be free of my father, will we?” If this news came out, any hope for normalcy would be extinguished, blown out by the roar of the crowd.

“I’ll kill the article,” he said, taking a seat across from me on the floor, back against the stove, maneuvering his long legs so one was on each side of me. “I’ll put the entire thing in the ground if you want me to.”

“No.” It wasn’t an answer, more like a denial, because I couldn’t believe my ears. This would be more than a kind gesture. It would be an enormous sacrifice. “I can’t ask you to do that. You’ve done so much work. You paid for all that travel.” And this, which was too painful to say aloud: How can I ask you to give up the truth?

“Just say the word.” He was resolute. “The work isn’t more important than you.”