Jonah wants me to consider my fate—lost business, lost stature, an exiled son, and another ex-wife, leaving me alone in the place where the worst happened—but he hasn’t given enough thought to his own fate. I can cut him off, shut him out, make him lose his father. Hell, if I wanted to flex, the state might lock him up, shun him, institutionalize him for sociopathic sexual deviance. Maybe. And yet—his machinations, poorly executed though they may be, are not useless, because if Nick wasn’t right in the head, he alone would be to blame. The battalion in my prefrontal cortex aims to fire.

“I need your help,” Jonah says.

“If I help you,” I tell Jonah, “then you will do two things for me.”

He nods.

“Leave this house and don’t come back until you are invited, explicitly, by me and me alone. That day may never come, but if it does, I’ll make the call. Not you. In the meantime, don’t contact me, don’t show up at work, don’t trespass on my property, and don’t look at my wife.”

He nods.

“Number two: You will never tell a soul. Not one. Not a future best friend or spouse, not a therapist, and never, ever your mother. You’ll let Elizabeth live out the rest of her days without knowing we had this conversation. You won’t send her letters or emails or texts, and you won’t look at her funny, because you won’t look at her at all.”

He says, “I swear.”

“On your life,” I insist.

“On my life.”

“I can help.”

“I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Shut your mouth.” Still sitting on this bed, still gripping an empty foil wrapper in my sweaty fist, I say, “Listen to me. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

34.

I’m here alone, sitting in my favorite chair with my feet up, drinking bourbon and staring at the sunlight dimming on my wall, when Elizabeth finally makes it home. It takes a minute for her to notice me watching her. When she does, she jumps. “Hey. I didn’t see you there. How are you feeling?” She hovers, combing her fingers through my hair.

“Better,” I say. “Much better.”

“I tried calling you. So did the pharmacist. We tried a few times. Did you get our messages?”

I look up at her.

“She couldn’t find your prescription in the system.”

“No? Hm. Isn’t that strange? I wonder what happened.”

“Got you some over-the-counter stuff. Acetaminophen with caffeine, I think. Not sure how that’s supposed to help a migraine, but it was the best I could find. Do you want to call and I’ll run back out?”

“No,” I say. “That won’t be necessary.”

There was no migraine, no prescription to fill. Borrowing a page from Elizabeth’s playbook proved useful nonetheless. It bought me time.