“Hello, son,” he says, and I wonder if he rehearsed what his first words would be to me. I don’t answer him. I don’t know how. “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” my dad says, and he sits down and I keep standing.

“You thought I’d still be a kid?” I ask.

“No. Not at all. Take a seat, Jack.”

“It’s Edward these days.”

“Not to me.”

The thing that strikes me the most is how much Dad has changed, but at the same time how much he is exactly the same. He has to be in his midsixties at least, though I’m not sure of his exact age. He could almost be seventy. He looks seventy, if that’s anything to go by. He was as large as life when I was kid—perhaps that’s because he was out there taking everybody else’s. He was a bigger man, certainly, but in jail the weight has slipped away from him, and my memories are old, and the combination of them means the man sitting ahead of me is not the man who raised me for the first third of my life. The time here has not only taken his weight, but also his hair. He’s bald on top with a ring of grey hair around the edges, and sideburns that don’t seem to match. He hasn’t stopped smiling since the moment he saw me, his lips peeled back, showing teeth that are slightly crooked that I don’t remember being crooked. His jaw is covered in stubble, his eyebrows longer now, hair sprouting from his ears and nose. But his eyes, his eyes are the same. Warm, friendly, smiling blue eyes that look at me with tenderness, and the wrinkles to the sides of them, the small wrinkles that appear when he smiles are the same, and Dad could be a hundred and ten years old and you’d still know him by his eyes. Is this me in the future? Is this the face I will one day have?

“It’s been a while,” I say, finally coming up with something. I sit down and the guard takes a few steps back and tries to pretend he isn’t listening to what we’re saying while Dad’s guard wanders off to the other side of the room.

“You got no argument from me,” Dad answers. “It’ll be twenty-one years next winter. That sure does count as a long time.”

Fact is, it’s the longest time anybody has served in this prison. Your run-of-the-mill murders get you ten to twelve years with parole. Less if you find Jesus. But Dad strung himself together a collection of ladies that was too long not to go answered for, so the wheels of justice ground in a new direction for him and he became the first person ever to be given “life” where “life” actually meant he’d never step outside of these walls again.

“I have a granddaughter,” he says. “Did you bring a picture?”

“No,” I answer, even though there is one in my wallet. I don’t want this man seeing her. I don’t want this man being part of her life, and by the time she ever has to learn of him he will hopefully be dead.

We stare at each other and I offer nothing else. I hardly know what to say. I always thought I would. I thought I’d scream at him, and suddenly I’m finding there’s something to be said about being with your dad again after all this time. Maybe I didn’t stop loving him at all way back then.

“I’m sorry how it turned out,” he says, and he spreads his hands magician style, as if he thinks his words carry more weight if he can prove he’s not hiding anything up his sleeves. “With your mum. And especially with Belinda. I loved that little girl. It almost killed me what happened to her.”

“You talk about her as if she was somebody you met,” I say. “She was your daughter. My sister. And you were out there taking away other parents’ little girls who were doing the same thing.”

“True,” he says. “Very true. But I still cry at night. I cry for the little girl I lost. I cry for the woman she never got to become.”

“You never got to see who she did become. She gave up everything for me. She did your job and she did Mum’s job and in the end it killed her. She’s dead because of you. Mum’s dead because of you.”

“I know.”

“You know? That’s it? When you cry, is it from remorse or from guilt?”

“Always from both,” he says. “Always.”

“I doubt that. I think you cry because you got caught. What do you want?”

“I wanted to see you. I’ve always wanted to know how you are. I try to keep track as much as I can, which isn’t much. If it hadn’t been for Jodie, I’d never even know you were . . .”

“What?”

“Married,” he finishes.

“What do you mean about Jodie?”

“She told me she’d never tell you, but she came to visit me. Twice.”

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Dad. You start lying and I’m out of here.”

“It was eight years ago—the year before you got married. I think twenty-two is pretty young to get married, to be honest, but she didn’t come to see me about marriage advice.”

“And I don’t need marriage advice from you,” I say. Especially now, I think. “Why did she come to see you?” I ask, my stomach twisting into knots.

“The first time was to meet me. To see what I was like, maybe to see how life could have gone for you if you hadn’t met somebody like her to keep you happy.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Mum couldn’t make you happy? You make it sound like it was her fault you killed those people, that if she’d been a better wife then . . .”

“That’s not what I mean at all,” he says, holding up his hand to stop me.

“Then what?”

“It was a poor choice of words. Son, I never meant any of this to happen.”

“You didn’t? Thanks, Dad. That’s wonderful to hear. I wish I could repay you for those kind words. Maybe if you ever get out of here we can hang out together, maybe go bowling.”

“The second time,” he says, ignoring me, “she was pregnant.”

My stomach tightens. I hate the idea of her sitting out here, facing my father, exposing her deep-down fears, telling him she was scared that the things he did would run in the family. I hate the idea she exposed Sam to this kind of evil. I’m immediately angry at her for that. Angry at her for coming here, angry at her for dying.

“She was a real nice kid, and I didn’t hold it against her for hating me. I’m not kidding myself, I’ve got no friends in this world, and I’ve done nothing to deserve any, and anything she had to say to me I’d heard before.”

“What’s your point, Dad?”

“Dad. I like the way that sounds.”

“Enjoy it over the next two minutes. You’re never going to hear it again.”

“I want to meet my granddaughter.”

“Out of the question. Why did Jodie come to see you the second time?”

“I have a right to see her. She’s blood.”

“No. She’s nothing like you and she’s nothing to you. Why did Jodie come back?”

“She came to tell me you were a good man and I didn’t deserve to have you as a son. She told me I would be a grandfather and would never meet my grandchildren. She told me I had ruined a lot of lives, but yours wasn’t one of them. She said she was fixing the damage inside of you that I’d done. She wanted me to know you were a good man and were going to make a great father. That was her gift to me, Jack. You were one lucky man meeting her, and you did the right thing by getting a ring on her finger as early as you did.” He leans forward. “But you are different. You’re my son, and she sensed it in you.”

“Shut up.”

“I really am sorry about what happened to her, son. A waste, such a waste. I have some idea what you’re going through, and it’s hard, son, it really is hard, and no matter how hollow it sounds, it’s true when people tell you that time does help. It doesn’t heal, but it helps. You will move on, and you have Sam, and if she’s anything like Jodie then you’ve got a beautiful little girl to look after.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “If it weren’t for her . . .”

I trail off, and neither of us fills the silence for a few more seconds until Dad leans forward and looks me right in the eye. “Have you heard it yet?” he asks.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, leaning back.