“In the study,” he says. “We’ll talk there.”

“Why there?” Cora asks, just to argue.

“Because that’s where the booze is. We’ll be needing it.”

“I can’t drink and drive back out in this.”

“No,” he says. “You can’t. I want you staying here tonight.”

“What?” She releases her purse and lets it fall to the floor. “I can’t just stay here. Peter’s waiting for me. I don’t have any of my things with me. You can’t just expect—”

“Cora.” My father sighs. “Just shut up, will you? Now, get into the study.”

He turns and heads down the hallway and I follow. I enter the study after him, and he hands me an already-poured drink.

“Vodka tonic,” he says. “Twist of lime. Simple. Classic.”

“Thanks,” I say. The crystal is ice-cold; the chill needles my forearm.

Cora hasn’t joined us, and my father and I sit in the two chairs we used this morning. A couple of minutes pass before I say, “Where is she?”

“She’s coming,” he replies. “In her own time. She doesn’t like to be told what to do.”

Sure enough, not thirty seconds later, she appears in the doorway, purse back in hand.

“Where the fuck am I supposed to sit?”

My father narrows his eyes. “You have a hell of a mouth on you.”

“Wonder where I got that from?”

“Take the desk chair and bring it over here.”

“I don’t like that chair. It’s too hard.”

She’s a child, I think. She’s a volatile and dangerous child trapped in a woman’s body.

“Take my seat,” I say, getting up. “I don’t mind the desk chair.”

Cora immediately slides into the leather chair without saying a word. I bring the desk chair and position it facing the two of them so we form a triangle in the center of the study.

My father stands and walks over to the wet bar. “What can I get you, Cora?”

“Cab sauv.”

“I have a merlot here.”

“Whatever.”

He returns, hands her the glass, and takes his seat again.

“Well, then,” he says. “Here we are. Just like old times.”

The second he says this, I remember I wanted to record this conversation. Ever since I recorded Cora at the trailhead, I told myself to do the same thing with every subsequent conversation. It could be the only thing that saves me.

“Hang on,” I say. “I need my phone.”

“Why?”

I think fast. “Max is having a sleepover. He’s supposed to call at some point.”

My father waves his hand at me, gesturing me to hurry. I head out of the study and back to the living room. My phone is on the table next to the couch where I slept, and I grab it and swipe it open. No calls, no texts, twenty-eight percent battery. I select the audio recorder and turn it on, then shut off the display.

Back in the study, I place the phone faceup on the small table between our chairs. Trying to appear as casual as possible, I turn it so the phone’s microphone faces Cora’s direction.