“What if that behavior doesn’t catch up with them? What if they cheat, get away with it, and keep doing it? What kind of lesson is that?”

A line forms between my mother’s eyebrows.

“Pie?” my father, ever the peacekeeper, interjects. “Verena,” he says, drawing her attention away from my mother and me, “have you ever had pumpkin pie?”

She shakes her head, looking equally grateful for the distraction.

“You’re going to love it.”

After two pieces of pie and a cup of coffee, my mother sends Verena off with her cleaned casserole dishes and three plastic containers of leftovers.

In the living room, I hear the subtle strings of Schubert, louder now that Verena is gone.

My father and I sit at the table surveying the scattered plates and glasses, all the proof of a good meal.

“What’s your plan for tomorrow?” he asks me. “I know you’ll probably want to sleep in, but I thought, if you’re interested you could help me go through a few papers…”

He doesn’t need my help but wants to give me something to do. It’s a Kaplan family trait—the need to be occupied.

“I’d love to,” I say, “really, but I need to get back to the station.”

He’s silent a moment, picks up his wine and puts it down again without drinking.

“You’re not going in tomorrow? It’s the day after Thanksgiving.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Crime doesn’t stop for holidays.”

He shakes his head. “Surely there’s medical leave or time off or—” He looks at my mother for help.

She shrugs. My mother is very good at pretending she’s listening when she’s not. Her eyebrows lift at all the right moments, and she’ll make noncommittal noises of agreement or sympathy depending on your tone. And if you ask her a question, she’ll hesitate only a split second before guessing the right response. I attribute it to years of listening to students while grading papers, making mental lists, or thinking of her own answer to whatever question she posed in class. Most of the time my father doesn’t notice or care. But today, he’s impatient.

“Helena,” he says. “We’re talking about Marlitt. Her physical and emotional well-being.” A note of a reprimand in his voice.

“If she’s ready to go back,” my mother says, standing and stacking our plates, “I don’t think there’s anything you or I can say to change her mind.”

Points to me for being stubborn all my life.

My father sighs and plucks at his napkin. I’m too old for him to forbid me to do anything. But he would. If he could.