Chance was about to say something, but Arthur waved him into silence. He strummed his chin with his index finger. “What?” he asked.

“The timing of Elizabeth’s suicide,” Myron said.

“I don’t understand.”

“The timing of the suicide,” Myron repeated, “and more important, your family’s attempt to alter it. Why would Elizabeth kill herself at six in the morning—at the exact moment Anita Slaughter was coming to work? Coincidence? Possibly. But then why did you all work so hard to change the time? Elizabeth could have just as easily had her accident at six A.M. as midnight. So why the change?”

Arthur kept his back straight. “You tell me.”

“Because the timing was not incidental,” Myron said. “Your wife committed suicide when she did and how she did for a reason. She wanted Anita Slaughter to see her jump.”

Chance made a noise. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Elizabeth was depressed,” Myron continued, looking straight at Arthur. “I don’t doubt that. And I don’t doubt that you once loved her. But that was a long time ago. You said she hadn’t been herself for years. I don’t doubt that either. But three weeks before her suicide Anita was assaulted. I thought one of you beat her. Then I thought that maybe Horace did it. But the most noticeable injuries were scratches. Deep scratches. Like a cat, Wickner said.” Myron looked at Arthur. Arthur seemed to be shrinking in front of him, being sucked dry by his own memories.

“Your wife was the one who attacked Anita,” Myron said. “First she attacked her, and then three weeks later, still despondent, she committed suicide in front of her—because Anita was having an affair with her husband. It was the final mental straw that broke her, wasn’t it, Arthur? So how did it happen? Did Elizabeth walk in on you two? Did she seem so far gone that you got careless?”

Arthur cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, yes. That’s pretty much how it happened. But so what? What does that have to do with the present?”

“Your affair with Anita. How long did it last?”

“I don’t see the relevance of that.”

Myron looked at him for a long moment. “You’re an evil man,” he said. “You were raised by an evil man, and you have much of him in you. You’ve caused great suffering. You’ve even had people killed. But this wasn’t a fling, was it? You loved her, didn’t you, Arthur?”

He said nothing. But something behind the facade began to cave in.

“I don’t know how it happened,” Myron continued. “Maybe Anita wanted to leave Horace. Or maybe you encouraged her. It doesn’t matter. Anita decided to run away and start new. Tell me what the plan was, Arthur. Were you going to set her up in an apartment? A house out of town? Surely no Bradford was going to marry a black maid from Newark.”

Arthur made a noise. Half scoff. Half groan. “Surely,” he said.

“So what happened?”

Sam kept several steps back, his gaze moving from the basement door to Myron. He whispered into his walkie-talkie every once in a while. Chance sat frozen, both nervous and comforted; nervous about what was being unearthed; comforted because he believed it would never leave this cellar. Perhaps he was right.

“Anita was my last hope,” Arthur said. He bounced two fingers off his lips and forced up a smile. “It’s ironic, don’t you think? If you come from a disadvantaged home, you can blame the environment for your sinful ways. But what about an omnipotent household? What about those who are raised to dominate others, to take what they want? What about those who are raised to believe that they are special and that other people are little more than window dressing? What about those children?”

Myron nodded. “Next time I’m alone,” he said, “I’ll weep for them.”

Arthur chuckled. “Fair enough,” he said. “But you have it wrong. I was the one who wanted to run away. Not Anita. Yes, I loved her. When I was with her, every part of me soared. I can’t explain it any other way.”

He didn’t have to. Myron thought of Brenda. And he understood.

“I was going to leave Bradford Farms,” he continued. “Anita and I were going to run away together. Start on our own. Escape this prison.” He smiled again. “Naive, wouldn’t you say?”

“So what happened?” Myron asked.

“Anita changed her mind.”

“Why?”

“There was someone else.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. We were supposed to meet up in the morning, but Anita never showed. I thought maybe her husband had done something to her. I kept an eye on him. And then I got a note from her. She said she needed to start new. Without me. And she sent back the ring.”

“What ring?”

“The one I gave her. An unofficial engagement ring.”

Myron looked over at Chance. Chance said nothing. Myron kept his eyes on him for a few more seconds. Then he turned back to Arthur.

“But you didn’t give up, did you?”

“No.”

“You searched for her. The phone taps. You’ve had the taps in place all these years. You figured Anita would call her family one day. You wanted to be able to trace the call when she did.”

“Yes.”

Myron swallowed hard and hoped he would be able to keep his voice from cracking. “And then there were the microphones in Brenda’s room,” he said. “And the scholarship money. And the severed Achilles tendons.”

Silence.

Tears welled up in Myron’s eyes. Same with Arthur’s. Both men knew what was coming. Myron pressed on, struggling to maintain an even and steady tone.

“The microphones were there so that you could keep an eye on Brenda. The scholarships were set up by someone with a great deal of money and financial expertise. Even if Anita had gotten her hands on cash, she wouldn’t have known how to funnel it through the Cayman Islands. You, on the other hand, would. And lastly the Achilles tendons. Brenda thought it was her father who did it. She thought her father was being overprotective. And she was right.”

More silence.

“I just called Norm Zuckerman and got Brenda’s blood type from the team medical records. The police had Horace’s blood type from the autopsy report. They weren’t related, Arthur.” Myron thought of Brenda’s light coffee skin next to the far darker tones of her parents. “That’s why you’ve been so interested in Brenda. That’s why you were so quick to help keep her out of prison. That’s why you’re so worried about her right now. Brenda Slaughter is your daughter.”