Jason got out the syrup. Poured them glasses of orange juice, then scrambled the last two eggs in the fridge so his child would have something besides bread dipped in sugar as a meal. He could almost hear Sandy saying now, “Waffles with maple syrup are little better than doughnuts. Honestly Jason, at least throw in a hard-boiled egg, something.”

She had never complained too much, though. Her favorite meal was angel hair pasta with pink vodka sauce, which she ate anytime they went to the North End. Pinkalicious pasta, Ree called it, and the two of them would slurp away, sharing the same bowl with gastronomic glee.

Jason’s hand shook slightly. He overshot stirring the egg, sending a yellow chunk onto the floor. He tapped by it with his toe, and Mr. Smith came over to investigate.

“The light’s off,” Ree singsonged.

“All righty, then. Let’s eat!” He used his best Jim Carrey voice, and Ree giggled. The sound of her laugh soothed him. He did not have all the answers. He was deeply troubled about what had happened today, let alone what might happen next. But he had this moment. Ree had this moment.

Moments mattered. Other people didn’t always get that. But Jason did.

They sat side by side at the counter. They ate their waffles. They drank their juice. Ree chased scrambled-egg bits around her plate, putting each bite through a maple-syrup obstacle course before finally popping it in her mouth.

Jason helped himself to another waffle. He wondered when the police would arrive to seize the family laptop. He cut his waffle into bite-sized pieces. He wondered how much Ethan Hastings had taught Sandy about computers, and why she’d never confronted Jason with her suspicions. He added half a dozen waffle bits onto Ree’s daisy plate. He wondered which would be the hardest way to lose his daughter—to the police, sticking her in foster care when they came to arrest him for Sandy’s murder, or to Sandy’s father, stating in family court that Jason Jones was not Clarissa Jane Jones’s biological father and thus should no longer be part of her life.

Ree put down her fork. “I’m full, Daddy.”

He glanced at her plate. “Four more bites of waffle, as you’re four years old.”

“No.” She hopped down from the bar stool. He caught her arm, frowning.

“Four bites, then you may be excused from the table.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

Jason blinked, set down his fork. “I’m your father, so yes, I am the boss of you.”

“No, Mommy is.”

“We both are.”

“No, only Mommy.”

“Clarissa Jane Jones, you may eat four bites of waffle, or you may sit on the timeout stair.”

Ree thrust her chin out at him. “I want Mommy.”

“Four bites.”

“Why did you yell at her? Why did you make her mad?”

“Back to your chair, Ree.”