Dad and I are sitting on Penn Epner’s leather couch in Penn Epner’s basement apartment, feeling rather uncomfortable as Penn Epner, the pizza guy who dared insult Dad via Twitter—for which he still deserves an ass-kicking, if you ask me—rummages through his fridge wearing a thick cardigan and shorts. Talk about loser ensemble.

“I’ve been in your homes and Mars Investigations, I don’t know...” He looks at the two of us. “How many times would you guess?”

Dad sighs. “Oh, man.” He nudges me with his knee. “Veronica?”

Like I care. “Too many to count.”

Epner’s face turns petulant. “How come you guys don’t order Cho’s pizza anymore?”

“You know, I’m not sure.” Another knee nudge from Dad. “Why don’t we?”

Because the delivery guy, probably Epner, always arrived late and with a cold and greasy pizza. Because Mama Leone’s are a hundred-times better, with the batter made from scratch instead of frozen a long time ago, they deliver promptly, so the pizza is still hot and the cheese runny as if just pulled out of the oven. “Carbs,” I say instead.

“Oh.” Epner nods, looking down at his gut.

Yeah, buddy, you might lay off carbs as well.

He lifts the two beer bottles he’s holding. “Did you want one?”

Dad shakes his head. “No. Thanks.”

I wave my hand. “I’m good.”

And Epner puts the bottles back into the fridge. He might want to lay off beer as well, if he wants to get rid of the gut. “So what can I do to help?”

I look at Dad. “Well, my dad would like to ask you what you remember at the Sea Sprite.” Then I school my features into the you’re-about-to-get-your-ass-kicked expression. “And I would like to politely ask you to take down that tweet about him.” Then I smile. It definitely doesn’t reach my eyes. “After that, who knows where things are gonna go?” Toward Asskick Town, if you don’t take down the tweet.

Completely oblivious, Epner grins like a demented child on Christmas. “You follow me, huh?”

Yuck. “My fiancé forwarded it.” It feels nice saying it. Very nice. If I was a guy, I’d probably puff out my chest. As it stands, I have nothing to puff out, but still, it feels nice hearing the word.

Epner’s gaze flickers to my left hand and the ring on my finger. “Congratulations.”

I incline my head graciously. “Thank you.”

He shrugs. “Even if you don’t follow me, that’s cool. I mean, last week I had 47 followers, all Murderheads. Now, it’s more than 2,000.” His chest does puff out a little. “So anything I witnessed, it’s all there in the tweets.”

Half of it made up and half exaggerated.

“But since we’re here...” Dad prompts.

Epner rolls his eyes, puts his beer bottle onto the table and slides his hands into the pockets of his cardigan. “Yeah, okay. Shoot.”

I have to ask. “Murderheads?”

Epner’s face falls even more, which, I’m sure, is a feat. “You’ve never heard of us?”

Dad makes a noncommittal sound, but I just come out and say it. “Nope.”

Epner sighs, looking at us like we’re heretics. “We’re an online community of justice seekers devoted to solving cold cases.”

Lord have mercy.

“Is that so?”

Dad sounds like he’s about to start laughing, so it’s my turn to nudge him. “You know what, on second thought, I will take that beer.” There’s nothing that can wipe this strange taste out of my mouth, but I need something to do with my hands instead of punching Epner, so I stand to follow him to the fridge, sending a warning glare to Dad.

“You know,” Epner informs us grandiosely as he hands me the beer (what kind of a gentleman doesn’t open the bottle for a lady?!), “the information we found led to the capture of the Long Beach Strangler.”

Dad nods, his face glowing like he’s had an epiphany. “Murderheads! Now it’s ringing a bell.”

If obviously isn’t, but you have to know the man to tell the difference.

I flick at the bottle cap. “So you deliver pizzas and solve murders.” Yeah, I’m not impressed. And I’ve never heard of the Long Beach Strangler.

“You left the motel office right as the bomb went off?” Dad continues.

Epner makes a hand shrug. “Five seconds prior. I walked out, I waved to Matty, and then: boom. Me, I—I caught some shrapnel in the back.” He looks at me. “But how lucky was I?”

Lucky? Boy, what a poor choice of words. But I’m still flicking at the cap, silent, letting Dad do the talking.

“So the motel owner’s daughter would've been looking straight into the office?”

Epner nods. “Yeah.” Then shakes his head dejectedly. “She saw the whole thing, that poor kid.”

Now, there’s the opposite of luck. Watching your father explode. I’d probably be a vegetable by now.

“And what happened next?” Dad asks.

A shrug. “Then I woke up at the hospital. I don’t even know how I got there.”

I’m looking at a spot where to place my untouched beer—it holds no appeal, it never did in the first place—when a cheer rises from outside. Or maybe from above. It’s the boardwalk, spring-break central.

Dad rolls his eyes. “You ever ask the landlord to keep it down?”

Epner laughs. It’s the first genuine reaction from the man since we walked in. “You think I live here?” He circles his pointed finger to illustrate our not-so-appetizing surroundings. “That’d be pretty sad.”

I could give him a list of what is truly sad about him and his accommodation isn’t in the top five.

“But the people in the house—” Dad starts.

“The house is mine,” Epner interrupts. “I move here in April, rent the place out to spring breakers.” He chuckles. “I clear 50K a month. The place sleeps ten.”

He looks so complacent, I want to slap him. “So why are you working as a pizza delivery guy? Obviously not for the money.” I’m genuinely intrigued. “You love pizza so much, or are you an everyday Santa making people happy with pizza instead of gifts?”

Epner stammers a bit, realizing he’s revealed too much. “I—I like delivering pizzas. And yes, it’s not for the money, I just like it. We at Cho’s make a great team.”

He’s so full of bullshit, I’m surprised it doesn’t ooze out of his ears. Something smells here and it’s not this basement apartment. There’s something off about this pizza guy. But there will be time to dwell on it, and investigate, later. I have a more pressing matter to discuss. “Let’s get back to the tweets, then.”

“Veronica,” Dad warns, but I ignore him.

“So.” I take a menacing step toward Epner, and even though he’s larger, if not taller, than me, he shrinks back slightly, giving me immense satisfaction. “You called my dad a clown or a scoundrel, and if I wore gloves, this would be when I peel one off and smack you across the face.” Or punch you, either way works for me.

“Okay.” Epner takes another small step back and lifts his hands in surrender. “I’ll take down the tweet. Let’s call it professional courtesy.”

I smirk. “From one pizza delivery guy to two people who do not do that.” What a douche.

“I mean...” Epner tries to go for sheepish, but there’s calculation and derision in his eyes. “Didn’t he lose the election because of evidence tampering?”

“He wasn’t the one tampering,” I enlighten him. “That was me.” And I still regret it.

Epner, who deep down is also a rotten bastard, keeps digging his own grave. “And didn’t he go after the wrong guy in your best friend’s murder?”

If it weren’t for Dad’s restraining hand on my shoulder, I’d go for one of the dirtier moves Logan taught me.

“Go ahead and leave up the tweet, Mr. Epner.” Dad nods to him, still holding me back. “Thanks for your time.”

“Do you think they’ll ever figure out who murdered Lilly Kane?”

Dad has to literally drag me out of the basement or risk his only daughter going to jail for murder.



“There’s something off about Epner, don’t you think?” Dad asks when we get to the office.

I make a noncommittal sound, Penn Epner having been relegated to the back of my mind for later processing, I have a bigger issue to tackle. Epner’s apartment had been our first stop this morning, having met there instead of either of us coming into the office first, so I didn’t get the chance to talk to Dad before.

“Could you come to my office, please?” I ask and lock the outer door behind us. Until Mac returns from her vacation, we’re short someone to mind the reception desk and keep possible waiting clients occupied, so the lock it is.

When I sit behind my desk and point at the chair in front of it, Dad looks at me funny, then lowers himself into the chair with a smirk. “Am I in trouble, mom?”

There’s no point in beating around the bush. I have not the time nor the patience for it. “I know about your memory problems. And the drug for dementia,” I dive right in.

Dad’s face darkens. “And how do you know about it?” At least he’s not denying it.

“I had Mac hack your records,” I explain matter-of-factly.

“For someone with a law degree, you should know we have privacy laws in this country, not to mention medical confidentiality and physician-patient privilege.”

I glower. “We’re not in court, Detective. I’m your daughter and I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be.”

I scoff. “Looks like I have no choice.” I lift my palm to silence him. “And since you refused to talk to me, I took matters into my own hands to find out the truth, which is, let’s be honest here, what you would’ve done, if our roles were reversed.”

He sighs. “Veronica...”

“When were you planning on telling me? When you didn’t recognize me anymore?” I frown. “Were you planning on telling me?”

Another sigh. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“You’re my father!”

He nods. “And you’re an adult. You have your own life, your own problems and troubles, and you can take care of yourself even if I’m not there.”

I stare at him incredulously. “So, what, were you planning on walking out onto the ice and disappear? I never considered you a martyr, Dad.”

He shakes his head, lifting his hands in a placating manner. “I’m not, I just didn’t want you to worry about me, my doctor and I are taking care of it.”

I snort. “Yeah, and you’re obviously doing a great job.” I silence him again. “Listen, you’re my father, and you’ve taken care of me for half of my life. It’s time I return the favor.”

He arches an eyebrow, twirling his cane. “And how will you do that? Shoot me and put me out of my misery instead of letting me walk out onto the ice?”

My father is such a comedian. He should do stand-up. People would certainly pay for him to stop. “Not until it’s necessary.” I grin, all teeth, no warmth. “But you will change doctors, go to a specialist. And an orthopedic surgeon while you’re at it.”

He leans forward, anger sparking in his eyes. “We’ve already discussed it last night. I’m not taking money out of the company account.”

I nod. “Agreed.”

He stares at me for a heartbeat. And another, before realization dawns. “No!” he snaps. “I’m not taking Logan’s money.”

“Why not?” I ask softly. Did I misread him? Did I mislead Logan last night? I refuse to believe it, but what if—

“Because it’s his money, he should use it.”

“He wants to use it any way it pleases him,” I explain.

Dad shakes his head vehemently. “No, I won’t take it?”

“Why?” I ask again, as my voice starts to shake. “Is it because it’s Aaron’s money? Because you don’t trust Logan because of his past? Because you cannot separate father from son?” God, please, don’t let it be true.

“No!” Dad gasps. “How can you even think that?” He shrugs. “Granted, I wasn’t always that boy’s biggest fan, but he’s proved himself over and over again. He sticks around no matter what, he’s loyal, he loves you beyond reason and is willing to do anything to protect you and keep you safe. If nothing else, that is reason enough for me to trust him. He’s nothing like the bastard that sired him.”

I wipe at the tears running down my cheeks, wishing Logan was here to hear this, to help him put his heart and mind at ease. “Then why do you refuse his help?”

“Because...” Dad stares mulishly down at his feet. “Because I don’t want to be indebted to anyone, no matter who they are, you know that. And it’s Logan’s money, he might need it one day.” He shrugs, setting his chin at the stubborn angle I notice every once in a while looking at my reflection in the mirror. “Besides, if he’s not using it, why should I?”

It makes me want to laugh, because we Marses truly are two peas in a pod. Stubborn, proud and obtuse. “So you’re telling me it’s only pride preventing you in taking your future son-in-law’s offer of help?”

He looks taken aback. Figures he’s never thought of it in those terms before.

I nod. “So it’s only pride making you hurt your future son-in-law’s feelings, making him think you’re rejecting his help out of some deep-rooted resentment and his connection to Aaron Echolls.” I sniff. “I almost lost him because of that same pride.”

“What are you talking about?” he whispers, turning a little green.

“You heard me right.” I make a head shrug. “We had a fight last night. Not the first because of his damn trust fund, but first one really serious. First one in five years, when he finally came out and told me what he thinks the reasons for our refusal of using his money for anything are.”

“Shit.”

I nod. “It’s not true, thank God, none of those reasons are true, but the fact remains, we’ve been hurting him out of pride. He said he doesn’t need the money, but keeps it for family emergencies. And we’re the only family he has left, Dad. And we’re hurting him.” I shake my head in disgust. “Out of stupid pride,” I snarl. “I thought I was done hurting him when we got back together after the reunion, I refused to hurt him anymore, but I still did. Still do.” I slam my fist onto my desk. “And it has to stop! He wants to help. He needs to help.” I look at him imploringly. “Let him. Please, Dad. Please.”

His eyes glisten suspiciously when he stands and circles the desk to pull me into his arms. “I had no idea,” he whispers into my hair. “I—I’ll come by tonight. I need to talk to that boy.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, clinging a little, because he’s my dad and deep down, I’ll always be daddy’s little girl.