But you know what he left off the list?

Being in a hotel room with him!

So now I’m supposed to what, apologize for abandoning him when he needed me most? For not coming back to the room in the wee hours of the morning to be raped a second time?

As it turns out, that’s not what he expects. What he wants is answers. Specifically: “Were you fucking my father?”

I roll my eyes in the hallway and again when he finally allows me to enter the room.

“Were you?”

“So that’s why you raped me last night?”

“What? Raped you? Believe me, if I ever decide to rape you, you’ll know it.”

I wonder why people keep telling me if they decide to do something I’ll know it. If the detective ever grills me, I’ll know it. If my fiancée ever rapes me, I’ll know it. I do fucking know it!

“Don’t sell yourself short, Michael. I’ve been raped before, and believe me, you don’t have to take a back seat to anyone.”

“You think that’s funny?”

“Funny’s the last word I’d use.”

“Fuck you, Nicki! And for your information, my mom told me your whole foster family sob story months ago.”

I look at him. “You’ve got a cruel streak, Michael. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“So do you. By the way, I notice you haven’t bothered to answer my question. Were you fucking my father?”

“No. And you know it.”

“Then why do two police detectives think you were?”

“Because they’re morons. They found a stupid picture on the floor and thought, ‘The dad must be fucking his son’s fiancée!’ Well, how nice of them to say. On the other hand, they’re seasoned detectives who’ve seen every type of horror there is, so I doubt anything’s far-fetched to them. There’s a photo on the floor? Could it be the husband and wife were fighting and one of them picked up the thing that was closest—a stupid selfie photo—and threw it across the room in anger? No. Too easy. The photo on the floor means the dad and his future daughter-in-law were having an affair. And why not? They don’t know me, they didn’t know your dad, so in their eyes it’s a possibility. But you know me, Michael, and you knew your dad your whole life, so I have to ask, is this what you really think about him? Or is it what you think about me?”

“Nice speech.”

“Fuck you, Michael.”

“I would, but you’d accuse me of rape.”

I show him the angriest look I can muster while saying nothing. Because after last night I really don’t know what he’s capable of doing.

I lock myself in the bathroom with a clean change of clothes and take another Percocet, then shower, add some color to my face, and open the door to an empty room.

Fine with me.

I text Jessie, who texts back that her mom and Michael are on their way to meet David’s insurance agent. That strikes me as odd, so I call her phone. When she answers I ask, “Kind of soon to be filing for the death benefit, don’t you think?”

“Actually, the insurance guy called Mom to say how sorry he was.”

“How would he know so quickly?”

“He’s a neighbor.”

“Still, it seems kind of cold to meet him this soon.”

“Think about it, Nicki.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s Mr. Blass. Daddy’s insurance agent. Our neighbor.”

“Omigod! That’s the guy? Whoa! My head’s about to explode!”

“Exactly. So Mom wanted to explain how Daddy died.”

“Blass didn’t know?”

“Apparently not.”

“Where are they meeting?”

“At the house. Michael didn’t tell you?”

“We’re not talking so much these days. He left while I was in the shower.”

“I bet that wasn’t as fun as our shower.”

“You’d win that bet. How come you didn’t go with them?”

“Mom said to stay put. They didn’t want me there.”

“Why not?”

“Mom’s gonna say Daddy did this auto-sex thing all the time.”

“Why?”

“Michael said the insurance pays twice as much for an accident than it does for suicide.”

“Double indemnity?”

“I guess.