She remembers—it’s all over her face. I wonder if she’s mad at me for what I did. She knows I killed him. She knows I’m the one responsible for taking her father away from her. She must hate me, at least on some level. Wouldn’t she have to? She doesn’t understand why I did it. She doesn’t understand what I felt when I saw that man was beating up on a defenseless little girl. “I don’t know what you mean,” she finally says. She tilts her chin up to me. “You’re my dad, Hank.” I stare back at her in the dim light of her bedroom. “That’s right,” I say. “I am.” I reach out and take her tiny hand in
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