Page 222 of The Forbidden Center

“Threaten her?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

I look toward the stairs.

“I want you to talk to your kid.”

“I talk to my kid.”

“Talk to him about this.”

He’s quiet long enough that I can hear somebody talking in the background on his end.

“You her father?”

“No.”

“What are you?”

The question lands in a place I don’t have time to inspect.

“I live with her. I’m married to her mother.”

“And her mother asked you to call me?”

“No.”

He gives a short laugh without anything funny in it.

“So she doesn’t know.”

“No.”

“Then why are we talking?”

Because Tova asked me not to.

Because I promised.

Because the problem has an answer sitting in my hand.

“Because your son can stop doing this.”

“You always this subtle?”

“Not usually.”

He doesn’t laugh.

“I run a local business,” he says. “In a hockey city.”

“I know.”

Half the people who walk through his door wear my number on a Saturday night. Neither of us has to say it.

When his voice comes back, it’s the one people use once they’ve decided I’m not worth the trouble.