“You have a right to live, Danielle. You have a right to be happy and to fall in love and to find enjoyment in life. Your father didn’t grant this to you and you don’t owe him anything for it.”

“But he did.”

“Maybe your mother did,” Dr. Frank offered.

I scowled at him. “My mother? What does she have to do with this?”

“Or maybe it was your brother,” Dr. Frank said.

I stared at him in confusion.

“Or maybe your sister, Natalie, or Sheriff Wayne, or your Aunt Helen.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying, there are many key people in your life, yet you hand all the power to your father. Why do you think you do that?”

“He took life. He granted life. He acted God-like, so I guess I make him God.”

“God doesn’t drink a fifth of whiskey, Danielle. Least I hope not.”

I didn’t have anything to add to that, so for a moment, we both fell silent. Dr. Frank sipped more tea. I prowled in front of his second-story window overlooking Beacon Street. It was busy outside. The streets swarmed with happy tourists buzzing about. Maybe they’d go for a walk through the gardens, indulge in a Swan Boat ride or a duck tour. So many things to do on a sunny August morning.

These families always seemed cheerful to me. I wondered if, twenty-five years ago, the neighbors thought the same about us.

“Do you think that if you’re joyful, your father wins?” Dr. Frank asked now. “You’ll be indebted toward him?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Which meant, of course, that I did.

“You want to know why your father didn’t shoot you,” Dr. Frank said, steadily. “Twenty-five years later, it still comes down to that. Why didn’t your father kill you, too?”

“Yes.” I turned, less certain now, and stared at Dr. Frank. It wasn’t like him to cut so quickly to the heart of my mixed-up, fucked-up life. I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Maybe your mother called to him,” Dr. Frank stated. “Maybe she called out his name and that distracted him. Maybe she begged for your life.”

“Couldn’t. She died instantly, single gunshot to the head.”

“Your sister, then; she was closer. Maybe she told him not to.”

“He shot her in the face, in the doorway of her bedroom. I don’t think she could say much after that.”

“Your brother lived long enough to be rushed to the hospital.”

“Yeah, Johnny lived a good twenty minutes. Johnny also made like Superman and tried to fly down the stairs. His spine was shattered by a bullet, his neck fractured from the fall. Only thing he probably begged for was a second shot, for my father to finally get it right.”

“I see you’ve been reading the police reports again.”