When it came to his family, my father was as blind as King Lear, blithely fostering jealousies among his offspring, then seeming shocked when they turned against him. Sometimes it was as calculated as naming me heir. But more often, it was the thoughtless slights, like ignoring them in my presence or prominently displaying on his desk a photo of me as a child…with my mother beside me. How did my half-brothers feel, seeing that? Their own mother’s picture was farther back, displayed more from duty than from desire. My father would say that they were grown men and knew he hadn’t lived with their mother for years, remaining married only because he couldn’t afford the divorce. Yet it was the emotional impact that mattered, and that he couldn’t see.

“Paige did come to Miami with you, didn’t she?” he said as he closed the door.

“She’s at the hotel, unpacking.”

“Which hotel?”

“The South Continental.”

“Why don’t I have you moved—”

“Paige likes the Continental.”

“I was going to suggest you stay at my house.”

I stifled a sigh. I thought I’d preempt him by refusing his upgrade offer, but I’d only pushed him to something more difficult to decline.

“I’ll discuss it with her. But, having just unpacked, I doubt she’d want to—”

“Tomorrow then. I’m sure she’ll be busy with the case you’re working on so I’ll have my staff stop by the hotel and pack for her.”

Two questions framed as a statement. If I didn’t argue the presumption that I was staying longer than a day and working a case, he’d know both were true.

“We may not be here that long, Papá, and I’m not visiting in an official capacity.”

I waited for his face to fall, disappointed that I’d avoided his trap. Instead, he clapped me on the back and laughed, and I realized I had indeed been trapped…into proving how well I assimilated lessons I pretended to ignore.

“She’ll join us for dinner, though, won’t she?”

I could point out that I hadn’t received, much less agreed to, any dinner invitation, but that would be petty. Sometimes it was easier to play the game and let him win the small victories, reserving my strength for the larger battles. I said yes.

I took Karl’s envelope from my satchel. I felt my father’s gaze on me and resisted the urge to glance up.

I removed the photographs and, before he could see them, flipped to the second—the security camera picture of Ortega. Then I laid the stack facedown on my lap.

“Does Juan Ortega still work for you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did he work for you today?”

“I said he still—”

“But today. Was he at work today?”