Not a question.

“Desmond.” “Yes.” He was quiet for a long moment, looking at the forged signature that was almost, but not quite, his own — the loops of it studied, practiced, the work of a man who had sat across enough dinner tables to learn the shape of my father’s hand.

“I keep thinking I should be angrier,” he said finally.

“But mostly I’m ashamed I didn’t see it.

He sat at this desk.

He carved the turkey at that table.