“Let me see him first.” “You’ll see him when I have what I need.” He was too far gone in his own certainty to hear how thin his own lie had grown.

So I kept him talking, the way the investigator had asked, my collar warm against my throat.

“Porter loved you, Dax,” I said.

“He never wanted to destroy you.” His face twisted.

“Porter thought he was a saint.

He wanted to burn down everything I built — march into a police station, put our own father in prison, and hand it all to a nine-year-old.

I spent ten years in the trenches doing the ugly work while he played the perfect suburban father, and his grand plan was to give it to a child.” He stepped closer, his voice climbing.