“Yes,” I say, taken aback at his knowledge of my anatomy. “I was, yes. But even though it’s none of your business, I had it reversed a few years ago. We thought maybe we’d try, but we changed our minds, and by then, we decided not to redo the procedure. Elizabeth is forty-two, you know. We figured that ship had sailed. But we figured wrong.”

“Oh.” Humbled by his ignorance, he rises, adjusting his posture and inspecting the fresh dent in my wall. Powdered plaster collects on the concrete.

“Now, I’ve got to tell you, you are freaking me out a little bit,” I say.

“I know. I’m so fucked up, Dad. I seriously can’t take any more. Everything’s so fucked up around here. I’m freaking myself out too, okay?”

“I’m not talking about the wall.”

He looks at me and asks, “About what, then? What else? What part of this shit pile freaks you out?”

“About just now learning that you talked to Nick the night before he died. Am I hearing you right? You talked to him the night before he died?”

“Yeah.”

“And yet you told me and the police and everyone that you didn’t have any contact with him for days.”

What had been fury moments ago becomes reckless panic before my eyes. “I didn’t mean to lie. I swear. I was all bent out of shape, and it doesn’t actually make a difference. I mean, I realize that’s not the point, but it doesn’t matter whether I talked to him that night or not. He killed himself. He was going to kill himself regardless. I just have to keep telling myself that or I’ll go insane, Dad.”

We both jump when the door to the house opens and Kelly Carver nearly tumbles down the steps in our garage. “Oops,” she says, giving us a once-over, glancing at Jonah’s plaster-dusted pants. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

I direct her to the correct door, and she leaves, and it’s just us again, but we can’t do this here. So I say, “Jonah, when you hold things back, you risk all of us getting in a bind with the people investigating Nick’s death. If there’s anything else you’re hiding, you need to tell me. It won’t bring Nick back. I’ll grant you that. It makes a difference to us, though.”

“Okay,” he says, too calm, too sure. He should be scuffing his sneaker against the concrete floor like a kid who’s been put in his place, but he stands tall like a man, holding eye contact. “I just forgot.”