Marcus arrived at Aldermere Street at noon.

He had not been invited.

He rang the bell twice, then knocked.

Dora opened the door and looked at him without expression.

"Is my father here," Marcus said.

It wasn't quite a question.

"He's in the garden," Dora said.

She stepped back just far enough to let him through.

Vittorio was standing at the far end of the overgrown lawn, looking at a rose bed his wife had planted twenty years ago.

The roses had gone wild without tending.

They were still blooming in a chaotic, undirected way that was almost beautiful.

Marcus walked across the wet grass and stopped a few feet away.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

"Helena's lawyer called me this morning," Marcus said.

"She's filing against Rosa.

Against you.

She's saying—"

"I know what she's saying." Vittorio didn't turn around.

"Carver briefed me."

"Dad." Marcus's voice broke slightly on the word.

"I need you to hear me."

Vittorio turned then.

He looked at his son the way a man looks at something he is trying to see clearly for the first time.

"Then speak," he said.

Marcus looked at the ground.

"I knew it was wrong.

I knew from the beginning that something was wrong.

But Helena kept telling me the assessments proved Elsie needed firm handling.

That I was being weak.

That if I interfered I was undermining her treatment." He stopped.

"I wanted to believe her.

Because if I didn't believe her, then I had to admit what I was watching happen."

"And what were you watching happen?"

Marcus didn't answer.

"Say it," Vittorio said.

"Out loud.

To me."

A long silence.

A bird moved through the overgrown rose canes.

"She was hurting Elsie," Marcus said.

"And I let her.

Because it was easier than fighting Helena, and because the money meant I didn't have to fight for anything." His voice dropped.

"I am a coward.

I know that."

Vittorio was quiet for a long time.

"Knowing it doesn't repair it," he said finally.

"I know."

"Elsie told the bodyguard her father said not to ask for help when Helena got mean." Vittorio's voice was controlled and precise, the way it got when he was working hardest to keep it that way.

"She is three years old.

She had already learned not to expect you."

Marcus put his hand over his eyes.

"What do you want from me?" he asked.

"Tell me what you want me to do."

"I want you to understand that what you want from me right now is not the most important thing in this garden." Vittorio looked back at the roses.

"Elsie is inside drawing pictures at the kitchen table.

She asked me this morning if this was her house now.

She didn't ask where you were."

Marcus lowered his hand.

His face was wrecked.

"Helena is trying to move the money from the holding company," Vittorio said.

"The one she set up in your name.

The one she used to pay you to stay seated." He looked at his son.

"When Carver's injunction goes through this afternoon, that money will be frozen.

And then there will be a full accounting of every transfer, every payment, every instruction she gave you in writing."

Marcus went still.

"In writing."

"Every message she sent you.

Every instruction.

Including the one on the bank receipt last night." Vittorio turned to face him fully.

"I am going to ask you one question.

And I need the truth."

"Yes."

"Are there other documents?

Other messages?

Anything she sent you that you still have?"

Marcus reached into his jacket.

He pulled out his phone.

He held it out.

"Everything," he said.

"Three years of it.

I kept it all.

I don't know why.

I just — I kept it."

Vittorio took the phone.

"Go inside," he said.

"Sit with your daughter.

Don't speak to Helena.

Don't speak to her lawyer.

Don't speak to anyone until Carver tells you to."

Marcus nodded.

He started toward the house.

Then he stopped.

"Dad," he said.

"Is there anything left?

Between us?"

Vittorio looked at him for a long moment.

"Ask me again," he said quietly, "when Elsie is safe."

Marcus went inside.

Vittorio stood alone in the garden with his son's phone in his hand.

He opened the messages.

He read for eleven minutes without moving.

Then he called Carver.

"We have everything," he said.

"All of it.

Come back to Aldermere."

He ended the call and looked up at the house.

Through the kitchen window he could see the shape of his son sitting at the table.

And beside him, a small figure with a pen, still drawing.

Vittorio put the phone in his pocket and walked back toward the house.

Behind him, the wild roses moved in the wind.