I rose and went into the kitchen. A large amber bottle of pain pills sat next to a glass. I took two and brought them to him. “You know you’re not supposed to take these with alcohol, right?”

“Look who’s a doctor all of a sudden.” He shot the pills down with bourbon. “You’ve met Hank, before Patty was born. He fixed that Oldsmobile we had.”

“The station wagon?” I smiled. “I spent my childhood in the back of that car, driving around with Mom. What happened to it?”

“It got old and its time came.” He lifted the glass to his lips and said, “Happens to all of us.”

I stared at him as he drank. “She asked me to help her on that case.”

“Gates?”

“Yeah. She says her prosecutors are newbies and need help.”

He took another drink, draining the glass. “You gonna do it?”

“No. I retired. I’m just passing through.”

He shrugged. “Well, thanks for coming by.”

He rose and went into the kitchen. I sat on the couch, listening to “Let It Be.” Probably my mom’s favorite song. How the hell my dad and her managed to stay married was a mystery to me.

Up on the mantel was a photograph of the three of us at a park. I didn’t remember the photo and had no idea who took it, but I was smiling widely. My mother was smiling and had her hands on my shoulders, but my father had a stern face and had his hands behind his back. I stood and said, “Take care of yourself.”

The next morning, after a restless night at the condo, I called ahead to a resort on Catalina Island that I had once been to and booked a two-week stay. Seemed long enough to relax and figure out my next move.

On the drive out of town, I debated whether to stop and say goodbye to Gates.

I couldn’t decide, and I was hungry, so I stopped at the diner. I sat at the counter this time and ordered steak and eggs. It seemed like everyone was here. In small towns, people liked to eat breakfast out at the same place every day, and this was the only diner in town. It was somewhere to hear the latest gossip and news, discuss politics and the economy, and stay connected to the town. I pictured the street markets in ancient Athens and Rome serving about the same function.

While I waited, a big guy in a gray mechanic’s uniform came in. The name tag said “Hank.” He took a stool close to me, and I could smell the aftershave on him. He ordered some eggs and sat quietly. He didn’t read the paper or look up to the television that was hanging behind the counter. He glanced at me and then looked again, this time taking a long stare.

“Tatum?”