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I place the picture carefully on the table, technically closer but still far enough away that he has to strain a bit to make out the details on her dead face. He inspects it. Drinks in every mark and blood splatter.

“She was beautiful,” he murmurs.

“You didn’t have time to dispose of her stuff,” I say, “did you.”

“It wasn’t entered into evidence.”

“That’s not what I said.”

The HVAC system kicks in. The Box rumbles to life, a beast taking a deep breath.

I tap the Metro card in the corner of the photograph.

“Where’s the rest of it?” I say.

Dad smiles.

“Smart kid,” he says. “You know what, lean in. Come here.”

And there’s a really good chance I shouldn’t, but I do. I lean forward, brace my arms on the cold table, duck my head until all the perfectly brushed red hair tumbles over my shoulders. Dad’s chains rattle. His aftershave is too thick this close, and his mouth is an inch from my ear.

“I knew I didn’t have enough time,” he whispers. “Couldn’t dispose of it any other way.”

I understand the impulse. The less of a person a victim is, the better. Take away her name, her family, her life, and what is she? A blank body for the defense to project onto, a life to be overwritten. I know exactly how it works.

Dad says, “So I hid her wallet in the wall.”

Her wallet. With her student ID or her driver’s license or her Social Security card or something.

It’s in the penthouse.

The penthouse that Mom hasn’t sold, that Mom still has the key card for.

This is a lead. Or, it’s more than a lead—we’re one step away from an answer. From figuring this out, from finding a name and giving it back to the world. Pressing it into Felicity’s hands and letting them spread the word. Look, I’m not my father. I swear. I promise. My father would never do this.

I’m about to bolt from the room when Dad grabs my wrist.

He holds me like he’s planning to get a better grip, like he’s about to push me right against the table and apply just enough force to break the bone.

“If you want to be a man,” he says, “you need to start by putting a bitch in her place.”

I try to pull away, but he’s stronger. “Let go.”

“And if you want to take your father’s advice, you should probably start with your mother. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Let go.”

“You can’t lie to me.”

Deep breath.

I say, “Of course I have.”

He smiles. He lets me go. He settles back in his chair, grinning, brushing back a strand of hair that’s dared to fall out of place.

He says, “I’m glad we could spend some quality time together, Son.”

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