“I used to say the same thing to your mother. You can’t just sit around moaning about the past. You got a life to live, you got a girl to take care of, and you got someone here who’s ready and willing to help you. So quit yer bellyaching, Mother, I used to say to her. Quit beating yourself up and get on with it.”

I closed the dishwasher door, flicked it on, and leaned against the counter, thinking about this. It seemed as if he were getting me and Irene mixed up.

“Wait,” I said. “Why was she beating herself up?”

Trevor shrugged and slurped his rum noisily as if trying to cool it, like he’d forgotten he wasn’t drinking tea.

“Oh, you know — we all feel bad sometimes. You felt bad about her, she felt bad about you.”

“But what did she feel bad about? Our fights?”

“Sure,” said Trevor. “Your fights. She was sorry as all shit you two fought so much back in the day.”

“But you said she was beating herself up. Did she blame herself?”

“Oh, there was plenty of blame to go around,” said Trevor. “You know that as well as I do. But here’s my point —”

“But I’m asking,” I said. “Did my mother feel guilty?”

Trevor became still and put his glass down. “Ok, look,” he said. “We all feel guilty. But I told her, like I’m telling you, that’s no way to be. Know how you stop feeling guilty? You do your job. You do what’s right. Cryin’s not gonna help. Makin calls in the middle of the night isn’t gonna help —”

“What calls?” I said. “Calls to who?”

“Calls to whoever!” said Trevor, getting to his feet. The tension was back in his jaw, which was my warning to back off — but I couldn’t, because a certainty was boiling up in me now. Trevor started clearing off the table — there were still a few items left — the butter dish, the salt and pepper grinders, the breadbasket cradling a single, deflated-looking roll. His face was sullen and he wouldn’t meet my eye.

“Wait,” I said. “When was she crying?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Trevor slammed the salt and pepper caddy onto its spot above the stove. “Your mother had a hard time of it, ok? When wasn’t she crying, that’s the better question. You really wanna hear about it? Everything she went through? You weren’t there, that’s all you need to know.”

“She felt guilty,” I said. “And she wanted to call.” All I could see in that moment, against a background of red, was the photo Trevor had shown me on his phone. One ruddy arm around Irene, the other extended, snapping the picture. Irene’s massive sunglasses, her small, hidden face. The pursed no of her mouth. “She wanted to call me,” I said. “And you wouldn’t let her, you fucking bully. You wouldn’t let her do anything, would you? You kept her fucking prisoner like you’re doing to us right now.”