Across the desk, my father slumped more deeply into his chair. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Sure enough to promise me? To bet your life on it? To bet your mother’s life?”

“Why would you phrase the question like that?”

“Because it looks bad, son. It looks really, truly bad.”

I went to my bedroom, but that image of my father stayed with me.

The helplessness.

The heartbreak in his eyes.

I needed to know what he knew, and could think of only one way to get the information. It was late, but that didn’t stop me. Dad was in his office, Mom in the bottle.

I walked through the front door, keys in hand.

No one noticed or cared.

It took time to reach Ken Burklow’s house. He lived across the city line in a small house on a neat street.

“Gibby. What are you doing here?”

He filled the door, surprised to see me.

“May I come in?”

He stepped aside to let me pass, then studied the street with cop eyes like my father’s. “It’s late. Are you okay?”

I’d thought I was. Now I wasn’t sure.

“Sit down, son. Before you fall down.” He put me on the sofa, and came back with a glass. “Drink that.”

“What is it?”

“Very expensive whiskey.” He sat across from me, a big man in jeans and loafers. “So…”

He let the word hang, and I found myself strangely uncertain. I’d come for answers about my brother, to guilt Ken if I had to. Instead, I was swept up in visions of my family as it had once been. Against the backdrop of now, it was too much, so I went elsewhere. “I think I have a girlfriend.”

“Is that really what you came to talk about?”

I shook my head, staring into the whiskey. “Dad thinks he did it.”

“Maybe he did.”

I looked up. He was serious. “What is it with you cops?”

“What is with you kids? Your brother put two bullets in a biker’s leg. You saw him do it. He’s trafficking illegal weapons. Is murder such a stretch?”

“The murder of an innocent woman.”

“This is a discussion for your father.”

“He won’t talk about it.”

“Then be patient.”

“How, exactly? Jason’s my brother.”

Ken frowned more deeply, then stood and crossed to a collection of framed photographs. I was in some of them. So was my father. He stood for a long, reflective moment, and then lifted a frame from the shelf. “Did you know that I fought in Korea?”

“I did. I do.” So had my father.