“Huh, Daddy . . . ?” Her voice focused in more. “What d’you mean?”

“Nothing, honey. I don’t mean anything by it. ’Cept he deserves to be gone for what he did to you.”

“It wasn’t Wayne, Daddy. I understand that now. It was me!”

Vance didn’t answer her. She just didn’t see things clearly, didn’t understand about matters of personal responsibility and right and wrong. She still had the point of view of a child, he thought, and it was probably for the best.

All he wanted to tell her anyway was that he loved her.

“You know, I know I wasn’t always the best dad, Amanda . . . Like that person in the book.”

“You were all right, Daddy. You did what you could.”

“I remember I once went to visit you at school. On one of those father-daughter class days. You were maybe eight or nine . . .”

“Funny, I don’t remember ever seeing you at school, Daddy. Even once.”

“It was back in Florida. I was late. I couldn’t get off shift. But I went this one time. I got there, but everyone had left. Someone already drove you home. But this teacher let me go in. To your classroom. All by myself. And I saw this drawing you made. They had it on the wall. I think it was of me. It was a man in a uniform . . . with a blue cap. And he was chasing someone. With a gun. The teacher said it was part of some exercise your class was doing. How you were supposed to draw the person you admired most.”

“I remember that, Daddy. It was you. Before . . . Anyway, I don’t recall you ever telling me about it. You probably went straight to the bar afterward and got yourself drunk. You probably told all them about it.”

“I probably did.” That sounded about right, as Vance recalled. “But it made me realize, thinking about it, that there was a time where you did think of me in that way. As someone you admired some. Who stood up for the right things. Like that character in your book, Atticus . . .”

It took her a while to answer. “I suppose.”

“And I was hoping you might think of me like that again. Because that’s what I’m doing, Amanda. I’m making it all right again. For you. As much as I can.”

Vance had this thought that probably there was a time in all of our lives when we are all of us innocent. When we love our fathers and mothers. Because, what else did we know? When we all want to stand out and be someone good. And do good things. Before the world sets us on our paths and we become who we are.

Even his ’Manda had that inside.

John Schmeltzer too, no doubt.

“So, Amanda . . .” Vance cleared his throat. “I may not be seeing you for a while . . .”

She chuckled darkly. “You drunk, Daddy? You sure are sounding it.”

He was about to say no, and the silence grew deep before he could answer. And while it lasted, Vance wished he could say a lot of things to her. Like how he did love her. How he just wasn’t able to show it for a long time. Like how he was actually taking care of her now, as he knew he should have taken care of her back then. Making things right.

But instead, a smile crossed his lips, in his dingy motel room in South Florida. A drop of liquor hadn’t touched his lips in weeks, but all he said was, “Yeah, honey, I’m drunk.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

On the morning he was sure his life would come to an end, Vance stepped through the door into the offices of the fancy medical building near Palm Beach.

A metal plaque on the wall read, Dr. Henry Steadman, Cosmetic Surgery.

He looked around and took a calming breath. The place was decorated to the hilt. Why would that surprise anyone? He stepped up to the counter. There was an attractive woman there, in regular street clothes. And a bunch of other women behind her, some in green nurses’ clothing; others on the phone, or doing paperwork. He felt for the gun under his jacket tucked into the back of his belt.

“Dr. Steadman,” he said. “I have an appointment.”

“Mr. Hofer, correct?” the woman behind the counter greeted him pleasantly.

Vance nodded. “Yes.”

“Good. There’s a bunch of forms for you to fill out. You know how it is.” She handed him a clipboard with several papers attached. “Dr. Steadman won’t be very long. Just bring these back up when you’re ready. And let me know if I can help you with anything.”

He tried to smile, and took it all back to a chair. That woman didn’t have to die. She hadn’t done anything. None of these people had. He was pleased to find no one else in the waiting room.

No, only Steadman had to die.

He filled out the forms as best he could, and went over what he would say when he saw the doctor. In truth, he hadn’t practiced anything. Other than, You are the man responsible for my little Amanda’s ruination. Do you understand that? Do you understand your responsibility? He’d written it all down, why he was doing this, tried to make his thoughts clear. He had this note on him. He’d hoped people might look at him as a kind of a hero—how’d he’d stood up. For his daughter. Found the source. And rubbed it out.

If not as a hero, at least as someone with the will to separate right from wrong.

Yes, that was enough, he decided.

He filled out the forms, writing down his real address for once, back in Acropolis, and gave them back to the pleasant gal at the desk.

“Great,” she said. “Why don’t you come through the door, and we’ll bring you into another room and the doctor will see you soon.”

His heartbeat picked up. “Okay.”

The woman led him down a hall through a maze of medical workstations and examining rooms, into a smaller waiting area where he was told to take a seat. There were magazines and newspapers spread on the table. Vance picked up a USA Today. “Egyptian Unrest Continues for Second Week. Mubarek Refuses to Go.”

He wondered for a moment how God would look at him. Whether there was a heaven or hell. He hoped there was. He thought he deserved heaven somehow. Maybe he had caused pain in his life, but life was a balance, right? A balance of good deeds and bad. And he hoped that God would find that he’d done good too. Just like that wave over there in Japan. Or this guy in Egypt. God does bad things too. And—

“Mr. Hofer, my name is Maryanne,” another woman said, interrupting his thoughts. Vance looked up. “I’m Dr. Steadman’s assistant. He can see you now.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The doctor’s assistant led him down the hall, gesturing him into a corner office.

“Mr. Hofer . . .” The man from the TV, about six feet, longish brown hair, a friendly smile, got up from behind his desk. “Come sit over here. I hope you didn’t have to wait too long. What can we do for you today?”

The office was modern and bright, with picture windows that looked out over the Intercoastal. It had a large, built-in bookshelf against one wall, a polished conference table with six chairs, bronze sculptures, what looked, to Vance, like African masks, and a handful of framed diplomas and awards on the walls. One of them was a magazine cover. Everything about the place was expensive, dizzying. Why not? It was paid for with people’s blood, right?

“Get you anything?” Steadman asked. “Coffee? A Coke? Water?”

“I’m fine.” Vance shook his head.

“Okay, then.” The doctor glanced at his assistant. “Thanks, Maryanne. We’re good. So please, sit down.”

There was a credenza behind him with a bunch of photographs and awards on top. Vance tried not to be taken in by the size and the fancy setting. His eye caught a framed magazine cover—“South Florida’s Best Doctors . . .”—on the wall. Steadman’s picture on it.