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chance?”
    â€œDad . . .”
    â€œI know, I know. But she means well. She loves you, son, whether or not she’s able to say it.”
    First time Dad had mentioned Bellamy to Shane in years. Why? It wasn’t like him to bring up painful topics . . . Had he brought Bellamy up out of emotional necessity? Was asking his kids to make peace a last request?
    â€œA calming presence.” Many years ago, someone had said that about his father—Shane couldn’t remember who.
    The voice had been deep. It was a man who had said it. “ Outside of Henry Fonda, your father has the most naturally calming presence of any actor I know. ” A kind voice, and so familiar. If Shane could place a name to it, maybe he could get this man to speak at the funeral . . .
    â€œYou don’t understand, Dad.”
    â€œI just want my family to get along. It’s the one thing that could . . .”
    He’d never finished the sentence.
    Shane gritted his teeth. Stop . Drive. Keep it together . What else had he said, Dad’s friend? If he really focused, Shane could almost hear the lilt in the voice, the smile in it. He had smiled, hadn’t he?
    â€œYou want to know a secret, kiddo?”
    â€œSure!”
    A car horn shrieked—the Ferrari. Shane had cut him off without realizing it. He sped up, but the Ferrari pulled up, kiss-close behind him.
    â€œDon’t tell the gossip rags.”
    Shane pressed on the accelerator, but the Ferrari followed, riding the Jeep’s bumper, flexing its speed. “ See, if anybody finds out, they’ll get jealous, but the truth is, your father is the best actor I’ve ever worked with. I’m not kidding around. ” The voice shimmered in his mind now. More than thirty years later, but there was still no mistaking it. John’s voice. John McFadden’s voice.
    The Ferrari flashed its brights.
    â€œAsshole!” Shane yelled. But it came out a sob, and then more followed—wet, angry sobs that made it hard to breathe, to drive, to see the road.
    â€œSUGAR PLEASE,” SAID THE POLICE DETECTIVE. HE WAS PROBABLY TEN years younger than Kelly—big shouldered and ginger haired, complexion like strawberry ice cream sprinkled with cinnamon. He was too pinkfor Kelly, too soft. Of course he wanted sugar in his coffee. Probably liked it flavored too. Probably a big fan of hazelnut vanilla toasted caramel Cracker Jack crème brûlée.
    Kelly filled a mug with coffee and set it down in front of the detective. She got the carton of sugar out of the pantry and poured some into a bowl. She placed the spoon on top and slid it across the kitchen table to him thinking, Have at it .
    She couldn’t remember his name. He’d introduced himself at the door, but everything he’d said after Detective and before LAPD Homicide had flown clear out of her head. Bruce or Brian or Barry . . . she thought it began with a B . Brûlée . First man she’d seen in a tie since . . . Well, probably since she last met with her parole officer. This detective’s tie was gray, a spatter of red polka dots on it that made Kelly think of . . . Shane never wore ties.
    He spooned in the sugar—two, three, four, five spoonfuls before Kelly’s stomach went sour and she had to look away. As though on cue, the washing machine shifted cycles, thump-thump-thumping in time with her heart. “Thank you for letting me in,” he said. “I know we usually call first, but I was in the area.”
    Thump, thump . . . “I don’t have a lot of time.”
    â€œThis won’t take long,” he said. “By the way, I’m sorry for your loss.”
    He scooped another heaping spoonful of sugar into his cup, which felt almost like an obscene gesture. ( How many was that? Nine? Ten? ) But he wasn’t focused on the coffee. Scoop after scoop, his eyes stayed trained on her face. Technique . Everybody had a technique for talking to