Before I could come up with an answer that made sense about my card, I noticed him zeroing in on the scars on my right arm. “What happened to you? Burned or something?”

“Or something,” I bit out. “Now, where’s your mom?”

He turned to the side, facing the living room. “She stopped at a church on her way home. Not that it’s your business.”

“Why is she at church on a Friday morning? And don’t tell me it’s not my business.” Everything was now officially my business.

“But it’s not.” He whirled around to confront me. “She’s my mother, not yours.”

And I think I’m your father. Maybe. Probably. Looking at you now, yes, most definitely.

Eyes back on me, I could tell he was torn between continuing to revolt and surrender.

Choose option two.

“Knowing Mom, she’s probably there praying for me,” he answered, choosing the smarter route. “You know, asking for forgiveness for my sins or something like that.”

“Why aren’t you with her if it’s⁠—”

“I’d combust into flames if I stepped into a church.”

Yeah, you and me both, kid. I hated that we also had that in common. “What church?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Language.” Great, now I was becoming like my father.

A light laugh rolled from his mouth—the smart-ass kind. “Real funny, dude. Like you can tell me what to do. You’re not my father.”

I shoved my hands in my Brioni dress pants pockets and hung my head. “Work hard to remember the name,” I said instead of giving him a piece of my mind.

He mumbled a few curses, clearly to get under my skin, then tossed out a couple of adjectives to describe the church. “She said she was drawn to it on her way home from work a few weeks ago. We’re Methodist, so I don’t know why she’d go to a Catholic . . .” He let his words trail off as if realizing he’d opened up to me when he’d been doing his best not to.

I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, realizing Juliette was at my late sister’s church. Bianca had been a devout Catholic.

Bianca, what are you up to? And if this is your doing, why didn’t you bring us together before now?

“Don’t even think about tracking her down. I don’t want you⁠—”

“Listen, son,” I began my lecture in a deep voice, “I’m⁠—”

“Not your son, remember?”