He thought about the spotless white rug in the mansion’s living room.

He thought about the cell phone ringing on his kitchen table while the ham glazed in his oven on Easter Sunday afternoon.

He thought about the six long years he’d spent on his back porch, sure that his service was over and his daughter was safe in a house in Belle Meade.

“No, thank you,” Richard said.

Michael looked at him, his eyebrows lifting a little.

“You’re sure?” Michael asked.