He looks at me as if I’ve just asked why the sky is blue. “Because she’s Cora, and you’re Rose.” He takes his index finger and loops it around the rim of his rocks glass. One time. Two. “How long had he been cheating on you?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I think at least six months.”

“Who was it?”

“Does it matter?”

“It’s always essential to know the enemy.”

My stomach churns every time I think of Riley with that woman. We’d already grown apart by the time I found out, but the simmering rage that stirs in me when I think about walking in on them in our apartment makes me want to throw my glass against the wall and watch it burst into shards.

“She was one of his business partners,” I say. “Also married.”

He nods, as if this all makes perfect sense. “Did she go to the funeral?”

“I made it very clear she wasn’t welcome.”

“Does Max know about her?”

I don’t know the answer to this. “I hope not,” I say. “He knows there were problems. Arguments he witnessed. Riley and I said some things I wish Max hadn’t heard.”

My father settles back deeper into his chair, lost in thought, his gaze not on me but on the wall of books on the other end of the room. He takes a sip of his drink and says, “No matter what you think of me, I’m your father and will always do what I can to protect you. You can tell me anything. You know that. So I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to be honest in your answer.”

An inferno of dread sweeps through my chest.

He leans forward and drills that stare of his right into me.

“Did you?”

It takes more than a second for me to understand what he’s asking, but not much more.

“Jesus, Dad, what kind of question is that?”

“A simple one. Couldn’t be more simple. A yes-or-no question.”

“You are not seriously asking me this.”

“Why not?” he says. “You found out he was cheating on you. Then he ends up dead.”

“I’m not having this conversation,” I say.

“We can end it after you answer the question.”

“What kind of person do you think I am?”

This question elicits a knowing smile, so gentle and slight, yet there’s an underlying menace only another Yates could detect. “You, me, your sister. We all have a thread stitching us together. You ask me what kind of person you are? I know who you are. You’re a Yates.”

I take another sip of my drink, clinging to the glass as if it will somehow protect me, a magical amulet.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” I say. “About that. The thread.”

“Don’t you?”

“We said we’d never talk about it. That was our agreement.”

The room is smaller, tighter, the air stale and warm. A prison cell.

“And yet,” he says, “the very thing we agreed to never talk about is part of your next book.”