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“I just thought that waking up every morning and looking at a balcony would be a painful reminder for you.”

“Well, it isn’t. At least it wasn’t, until now.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to do the right thing. Maybe I’m trying too hard.”

He seemed genuinely contrite, and Kate might have felt sorry forhim, except that all she could think was that this tender moment was a side of the evil capitalist that Irving Bass would cut from her play.

“It’s okay, Dad. We’re both struggling, trying to figure out what went wrong, what to do next.”

He turned and faced the sliding glass doors, looking out over the balcony railing toward the river. Kate had yet to ask him about Patrick’s sudden departure, as she’d promised Noah she would, but this didn’t seem like the time.

“I spoke to Detective Anderson,” he said.

“You told me. Mom was drunk.”

“I asked if he thought it could have been an accident. If it was possible that she fell.”

The possibility piqued her interest. Kate crossed the room and stood at his side, peering through the glass and out over the railing. “How high was the railing at the penthouse?”

“Forty-two inches,” he said. “Not that I’ve ever measured it. I checked the building code. But don’t let your mind go there. Your mother was only five foot two. Even if she was drunk and stumbled, she couldn’t just fall over the railing.”

“But what if she was so drunk that she got sick? If she was leaning over the railing, trying not to mess up her dress and—”

“Kate, we’re grasping at straws. We have to deal with the facts. Your mother left a note.”

“But the note said—”

“I know what it said. ‘I did it for Kate.’ I don’t think we’ll ever understand that.”

She stepped closer, her voice taking on added urgency. “That’s my point. Didwhatfor Kate? The note says, ‘Ididit.’ Past tense. After the fact. She didn’t write this from the grave.”

“Maybe—” he started to say, then stopped herself.

“Maybe what?”

Her father reluctantly finished his thought. “Maybe in her mind she was already dead.”

Kate looked away. “Not where I thought you were going with this.”

“Sorry if that sounded harsh. It was Detective Anderson who pointed out I was refusing to say things that needed to be said—things I wasn’t willing to admit to myself.”

“I suppose we’d both feel better if it was an accident, if we could look ourselves in the mirror and say we hadn’t missed an opportunity to prevent this—that we hadn’t let her down.”

“Youdidn’t let her down, Kate.”

“I’m just saying that if there’s any blame to go around, it goes equally.”

“No. I’m her husband.”

“Stop it,” she said.

“Certain facts are undeniable,” he said, smiling sadly. “Like the wise old man once said, ‘Truth is like poetry. And everybody fucking hates poetry.’”

There was an abrupt knock at the door, it swung open, and the movers carried in a leather couch.

“Where does this go?” the crew chief asked.

“I’m glad we talked,” her father said softly.

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