I appraise the deck, built so far to the northeast corner of our house that most of my property isn’t even visible from here. One can see the sky, the skyline, almost the sea, part of the swimming pool, all of the guesthouse. From below, looking up from the pool or guesthouse—or in a photograph, like those featured in our local paper last year: neighbors celebrating neighbors in photo essays validating our property values—we sell a strong illusion. People complimented those pictures of our home. They still do. But the elm is overgrown, and the linden is getting out of hand, too, so there’s not even much of a view anymore.

I move toward the broken beams where Nick stood at the steepest angle of our roof. A thirty-foot drop to the ground after that. Centering my hips in the gap Nick’s body made, I dare myself to look down the path worn by one-hundred-seventy pounds of young man on his way to his end.

“Dad?”

I spin around to see a figure blurred by the dirty windows between us. Jonah is standing square in the middle of the crow’s nest, facing me. “Hey,” I say, moving toward him. “What are you doing up here?”

“Door was cracked,” he says, still motionless behind the glass.

“Let’s go down. You don’t need to see this.”

“It’s okay,” Jonah says, but he doesn’t move.

I pass through the doorway, stopping below the busted chandelier. The perfect thing to say escapes me, so I put my hands in my pockets and wait.

“What are you doing up here?” he asks.

“I went down to the medical examiner’s office today. They’re still working on that official report. Got me thinking about this place.”

“What are they working on? It’s so stupid. There’s no mystery here.”

“They’re just doing their job.”

“Waste of our taxes.”

Of our taxes? The prospect of Jonah earning enough income to pay that guy’s salary is hilarious, but I’m not in a laughing mood. “Total waste. Hey, listen, I need you to do something.”

“What?”

“If anyone from the police or coroner’s office calls you—anyone who wants to ask about Nick, anyone at all—don’t answer. Let it to go to voice mail, then tell me right away and we’ll go from there.”

“Why?”

Why? Because if they know I lied about the kid in my passenger seat, I’m toast. “I have a hunch they might try to blame us, since it happened at our house.”

“For real?”

“Maybe. Premises liability for an unsafe structure. I’m not sure, but I don’t want to take any risks, especially with a wrongful death charge at stake.”

“Jesus, Dad. She wouldn’t do that.”

“Who?”

“Nick’s aunt. Naomi. She’s not going to sue you.”