I want to correct him and tell him that Henri wasn’t actually John’s father. That he was some kind of guardian who protected me and Sarah and the others—who died doing so. And that I watched his body burn in a ceremony behind a slummy motel close by.

But as far as Dad knows, John Smith was just a quiet guy in some of my classes, and I was nowhere near Paradise High the night everything went down. So instead I just ask: “How can they be sure it was him, though?”

“They’re sure.” Dad’s voice is gruff, meaning he’s done talking about the subject.

“Who wants more rolls?” Nana asks.

“Yeah, but what proof do they have?” I ask, feeling a little bad for ignoring my grandmother. “They must have something on him if they keep telling everyone he did it.”

Dad drops his fork down on his plate and looks across the table at me.

“Do you know who the ‘they’ is you keep mentioning, Mark?”

“Uh, sort of. The FBI, for one.”

“And you’ve probably seen enough movies to know how the FBI works. And what happens to people who ask questions about top-secret investigations, right?”

“Sure,” I say. “Black bags over your head and stuff.”

“I don’t know about that, but the last thing I want is for my son to end up in trouble because he was poking around in things he should’ve let be. It’s bad enough that Sarah was involved with this boy. The last thing I want is for you to get wrapped up in it too.”

“Of course,” I say.

He picks up his fork and keeps eating, but my head spins. Sarah was involved with this boy. It’s not the fact that this is true that makes my stomach drop, it’s that my dad knows. I rack my brain, trying to think of a moment I might have mentioned that Sarah and John were dating before, or even after everything happened, but I can’t think of one. Talking about a guy who kicked my ass and stole my girl is not exactly the type of thing I would bring up with my family. If Dad knows Sarah was “involved” with John, it’s from the investigation. Meaning the FBI and whoever else is in Paradise right now must know too.

“You got another letter from Ohio State today,” Nana says as she tries to force a second round of mashed potatoes on me.

The nice thing about living in a small town is that if your house burns down, the mailman can probably still find you.

“I’ll look at it later.”

“Just like the letters from other colleges you said you’d take care of, right?” Dad asks. “The ones that have piled up on your desk? I went and looked at them earlier, and half of them haven’t even been opened yet.”