“Different how?” I glanced over, tried to read his face, but came up with nothing. “Was your father abusive to your mother?”

Gloria’s own father had been abusive, and sometimes people went with what they knew, even when it was bad for them, because it was all they knew.

“He never hit her or anything,” Jeremy said. “Nothing like that. You make a left up here.”

“Didn’t you say your dad’s a teacher?” I asked.

“Yeah, high school.”

“Why do you want to drop by?”

Jeremy gave me a look that suggested any faith he might have had that I had half a brain had been misplaced. “Because he’s my dad,” he said.

“Sure,” I said. “Point the way.”

He directed me into an old neighborhood and told me to stop out front of a modest storey-and-a-half brick house with a couple of dormer windows poking out of the roof. While the house was small and unassuming, the yard was immaculately kept, with spring flowers that looked as though they had just been planted.

“Don’t freak out or anything,” he said, getting out of the car before I had a chance to ask about what.

I followed him to the door. He rang the bell, and ten seconds later it was answered by a balding man in his mid-fifties wearing glasses, a pullover sweater and jeans.

“Oh my God, Jeremy,” the man said with what struck me as limited enthusiasm. They faced each other awkwardly for a moment, then the man put his arms around the boy and hugged him. “What are you doing here?”

“We were just kind of in the neighborhood,” Jeremy said.

The man was looking over Jeremy’s shoulder at me, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “And this is?”

“This is my bodyguard,” Jeremy said. “Dad, this is Mr. Weaver, Mr. Weaver, this is my dad.”

I extended a hand. “Cal,” I said.

“Jack Pilford,” the man said, eyeing me suspiciously. “Bodyguard?”

“Not really,” I said. I managed, in three sentences, to explain my presence.

“Okay,” he said, dubiously. “Listen, Jeremy, you know I love to see you, and it’s great that you’ve dropped by. Without, you know, calling ahead. But this is not really the best—”

The door opened wider and another man, slightly older than Jack, appeared. He looked at Jeremy, took a moment to register who he was, then said, “Oh, wow, look who’s here. America’s worst driver.”

“Jesus, Malcolm,” Jack said. “Don’t be an asshole.”

Malcolm set his eyes on me next. “And you must be Bob.”

“No,” I said. I identified myself.

“Mr. Weaver’s been hired to protect Jeremy,” Jack said.

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Malcolm said defensively.

“Not from you.” Jack shook his head. To Jeremy and me he said, “I’m sorry about this. I was trying to tell you, this isn’t a very good time.”

“Lovers’ quarrel,” Malcolm said.