Then he saw Detective Ruiz.
Then he saw Mara.
Then he saw Tiffany standing on the porch with two overpacked bags and murder in her eyes.
And whatever hope he had brought with him vanished from his face.
“Mom,” he said.
I did not move.
He looked terrible. Too thin around the mouth, lines cut deeper than his forty-two years, the expensive coat and polished shoes of a successful man unable to disguise the collapse underneath. I wondered, not kindly, how long he had looked like that while telling himself he had no choice.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
“We are talking.”
He glanced at the detective, then at Mara. “Privately.”
“No.”
Rain slid off the porch roof in a steady line behind him. Tiffany shifted her weight, furious now, embarrassed, cornered.
Peter scrubbed a hand over his face. “Please. Just five minutes.”
Mara said, “Anything you need to say may be said here.”
He gave her a look I had seen him use on waiters and junior staff and anyone else he hoped to move with entitlement. It failed.
“Peter,” I said, and the sound of my own voice using his full name on that porch seemed to stop him more effectively than a shout would have, “did you forge my deed?”
He closed his eyes.
That was answer enough, but I wanted it in air.
“Did you?”
“Yes,” he said.
The rain, the gulls, the traffic from the next street—all of it seemed to recede around that single syllable.
Tiffany inhaled sharply. “Peter—”
He ignored her.
