“Do you know what I was just doing, Summer? I was reading Hamish Garrison’s obituary.”

“What? Why?”

“I found it here at the library. All these years, researching murderers and their victims, I never bothered tracking down my own origin story. I rely on my mother—the most unreliable source on the planet. If I was interviewing her for a podcast, I’d fact-check every word out of her mouth. But here she tells me this random British guy was my dad, and I believe her without question. Isn’t that strange?”

“This conversation is what’s strange.”

“I mean it, Summer. What if Hamish Garrison being my father is just a lie I’ve been living with all these years? The same way Pollard’s been living with the idea that April Cooper is still alive.”

“Hey, Q . . .” That tinge of worry in her voice. He closed his eyes.

“Or, hell . . . I don’t know. Maybe Robin Diamond is the one who’s been living with a lie. Maybe her mother really was a murderer, and she’ll never know it. What difference does it make? We all believe whatever bullshit we want to, don’t we? We suck up whatever pretty stories we can, just to help us get through the day without throwing ourselves in front of a train.”

He opened his eyes to Summer’s face in his hand—a mask of concern, eyes bigger than ever. For an awful moment, he wanted to break the screen.

“You need to get some sleep,” she said.

“You have no idea what I fucking need.” Quentin said it louder than he should have. He was aware of a group of young kids and their parents on the library steps, stopping their conversation, gaping at him.

“I’m sorry, Summer,” he said. “I just . . . Hell, you know how I can get sometimes.”

“I care about you.”

“I know.”

“I mean . . . Your mom. It’s only been six months, and we’ve barely talked since—”

“I don’t need to talk,” he said. Then, “I swear, I’d tell you if I did.”

Summer touched her fingertips to the screen. Quentin did the same. Tried to smile. “I probably shouldn’t have looked up the Hame-ster’s obit,” he said. “I don’t even know why I did. What was I expecting?”

“It would be nice,” she said, “if it mentioned a son in L.A.”

For a moment, Quentin flashed on Mitchell Bloom—the air-conditioned comfort of his office, the professional concern in his eyes. Do you really think April Cooper and Gabriel LeRoy were to blame for all your mother’s troubles? he’d said. For all your troubles too? Like a father. Like a shrink. He’d learned not to trust either. “I’ve just had a bad couple of days,” he told Summer. “I’ll snap out of it. Promise.”

“Quentin?”

“Yeah?”

“I really hope you find your sunglasses.”