What none of them understood was that every small insult made the larger strategy easier. When people overplay possession, they become less careful about the mechanics under it. Vanessa signed things in front of me because she no longer thought I mattered as witness. Khloe bragged on speakerphone because she thought I was background noise. My father, slowly, understood more than he wanted to.
About three weeks in, he knocked on my door after midnight.
I was in the back room with the service-drive view, working at the small desk I had shoved against the wall, when I heard the knock. Not Vanessa’s clipped authority. My father’s hesitant two-tap, like he still half expected a secretary to grant him entry to his own child’s life.
“Come in,” I said.
He closed the door behind him. In the soft lamplight, he looked older than he had in Connecticut. Not just because of the heart scare or the California sun. Because shame ages people faster than illness.
“You’re awake,” he said pointlessly.
“Yes.”