“Then tell us how it is.”

Aaron divides his attention between Tomasetti and me. “I told you. I forgave them. I moved on.”

“Is that why you’re so upset?” Tomasetti asks.

“I was alone here! I needed . . . a friend. I called Rob.”

“You haven’t even cleaned up their blood yet, and here you are dancing and drinking wine and having veal parmesan for lunch. That’s cold.”

“W-we were going to hire a professional c-cleaner.” Aaron stutters the words. “They can’t come out until tomorrow.”

“How much did you hate your father?” Tomasetti asks.

“I didn’t hate him. He hated me. His son. He couldn’t stand what I was.” He turns his gaze to mine. Through the anger, his eyes plead for understanding, and for the first time I see the shimmer of tears. “I loved him. I loved all of them.”

“Is that why you stabbed him with a pitchfork?” Tomasetti asks.

“I was a teenager. He was . . . ignorant. He didn’t . . . wouldn’t understand. I lost my temper!”

“I think you still have a temper,” Tomasetti says. “I’ll bet you’d like to stick a pitchfork in me right now, wouldn’t you?”

Aaron hurls the wineglass to the floor, inches from Tomasetti’s foot. Glass shatters, shards flying against the wood cabinets. Tomasetti doesn’t even flinch.

“Hey.” Rob steps between Tomasetti and Aaron, like a referee stopping a fight after a particularly devastating blow. “Come on, you guys. This has gone far enough.”

“Going to go a lot farther if we get lied to again.” Tomasetti jabs a finger at Aaron. “You listening?”

Aaron lunges at Tomasetti. I step forward, ready to intervene. But Rob catches Aaron by the arms, hauls him back. “This conversation is over,” he snaps.

Tomasetti has the gall to look amused. “You might want to watch that temper of yours, Aaron. You don’t want the cops thinking you’re capable of violence.”

“Fuck you!” Aaron screams the words.

“Enough.” Before even realizing I’m going to move, I step closer, turn to face Aaron. “You need to calm down.” Then to Tomasetti. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

Scowling, Tomasetti walks away. Bad cop. Time for me to move in. I turn back to Aaron. Something I see in this troubled young man’s eyes touches me in a place I don’t want to acknowledge. Maybe because Aaron Plank and I have more in common than he could ever know. Those parallels have been floating around in my subconscious since I learned of his excommunication.

“Come here.” I motion toward the kitchen.

Feeling Tomasetti’s and Rob Lane’s eyes on me, I walk into the kitchen, aware that Aaron follows a few feet behind me. Once in the kitchen, I turn to face him. “You’re not helping your cause.”

He sneers. “You must be the good cop.”

“You’re not a suspect.”