“Have you gone soft in the head, boy?”

I hate it when my father calls me “boy.” Sometimes I think he uses it only to irritate me, but then I quickly tell myself that’s ridiculous. I know he probably just doesn’t care.

“I wasn’t the one who asked her to go to Seattle,” I say, trying to sound unaffected.

“That is not the fucking point,” he says.

You have to hand it to the old man. He’s obviously furious, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he’s still speaking calmly. The only difference is his choice of words. He doesn’t usually curse.

“What were you thinking?” He stares directly into my eyes, challenging me.

I shrug. I’m not taking his bait.

Most people would cower and give him what he wants, but over the years I’ve learned that’s not the right way to deal with him, not if you want to get back at him in some little, petty way.

I know staying quiet and unconcerned gets him all riled up and he doesn’t like that. It makes him realize he’s not in full control of everybody at all times.

"What, did you think you were saving her or something?"

It's working. He's starting to get agitated. I can tell from the way he talks. He's going to continue asking questions now. Robert Foster's patented interrogation technique.

"You think you're doing her a favor to make up for what happened?"

He's trying to goad me into a big reaction, the kind that makes most people spill their secrets. But I'm not most people. I've dealt with him my whole life.

“You think she's going to forgive and forget just because you gave her a job? 'Oh, it's such a privilege to work with you I don't even care about the past.’ Is that what you think she'll say?"

Under different circumstances, I would've laughed at Robert Foster speaking in a feminine high-pitched voice to imitate Emily — poorly. But despite my outer nonchalance, I know this is not the time for fun and games.

"Please. Spare me the pop psychology," I say.

"Pop psyc—" He stops talking mid-sentence to take a deep, angry breath. He tries a different tack. "Then tell me. Help me understand."

"There's nothing to understand," I insist. "I needed a junior marketer and she needed a job. Voilà. Capitalism at its finest."

“Do you take me as a fool, boy?” He takes another deep breath.

I wonder if that's something his new shrink taught him. Count to ten to make all your problems go away. The thought of him lying down on the sofa and talking with some therapist about his feelings… For fuck’s sake. He probably thinks he’s Tony Soprano.

“Why can't you stick with the rules, at least  sometimes?”

“Sorry I'm not Caine,” I say.

My brother has always been his favorite. I made my peace with that a long time ago, but in moments like these I enjoy the flash of pain in my father’s eyes, the subtle wincing that deepens the lines around them.

People say we look alike. I can see where they’re coming from. I have to look at this mug in the mirror every morning after all. Sometimes it feels so much like having my father look at me I can almost feel the disapproval and disappointment. It’s a daily reminder of all the things I’ve failed to do.

But all things considered, it’s not the worst thing in the world to look like Robert Foster. After Mom died, ladies started throwing themselves at him. If nothing else, I guess I can count on having a full head of hair in my old age.

“This is not about Caine,” he says, as if anything with him is ever not about Caine. “This is about you. You and your chronic hero complex.”

Come on, I can’t be expected to hear that and maintain a straight face.

“Is that something your shrink mentioned?” I snort at the mental image of the powerful, ultra-masculine man in front of me whining about how his son is being mean to him. “Do you talk about me with your shrink, Pop? Do you tell him how I keep hurting your feelings?”

“Would you stop trying to change the subject?” He throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. Ah, that’s a rare reaction. It’s truly beautiful to watch.

He lets out an angry sigh, and then another one. In the middle of the next sigh, he starts talking again, as if he’s realizing the take-ten-deep-breaths trick isn’t working.

“We did the right thing for now,” he says. “It would’ve looked more suspicious if we didn’t ask her to go to Seattle.”

“Oh, so it’s ‘we’ now, huh?”

“Yes, because you’ve just dragged me into it. This is a family matter now. It’s not just about you anymore. It was never just about you in the first place.”

“Right. Everything is about the family with you. Because you’re such a family man,” I say.

That’s all he talks about. The family. As if the things he does are all for our benefit. But in reality, he just wants to be in control of everything because he thinks he knows what’s best for everybody. Such arrogance.

For the good of the family. I don’t know how many times he has justified his actions with this little phrase. I fucking hate it.

“Don’t mock me, boy,” he says, a hint of threat in his voice.

“Come on, Pop,” I say. It’s my turn to take a deep breath now. “You think that’s going to work on me? I’m sure it works on most people, but I’m not scared of you.”

He shoots me a sharp glare. I have to admit it is a little scary. Just a little. It’s like there’s some kind of razor steel in his eyes that can cut my skin and slash into my flesh.

“You should be,” he says.

“What are you going to do? You’re going to send me one of your thugs? Which one? Uncle Tim? Uncle Harry?” I laugh. I know I’m mocking and agitating him, which is not going to do me any good, but he’s already so worked up I figure I’d just go for broke.

“If this gets out, it’s not going to be just them you need to be afraid of. You’re going to have to deal with the cops. We’re going to have to deal with the cops.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “All of us. You’re putting all of us at risk.”

I shrug. What does he want me to say? I can’t see myself changing anything even if it were possible to turn back time and do it all over again. I can’t just let Emily wallow in her jobless misery, not after everything that has happened.

“You be careful now, boy,” he says. “I still own this company and I know you don’t want to lose it.”

I stare at him, daring him with my eyes.

“See you when you get back into town,” he says. He gets up and leaves the office.

Good. I’ve had enough of you too, Pop.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. I don’t have to worry about physical violence, obviously. But he does still have me by the balls and we both know it.

Forget all that. I have more immediate problems to worry about.

For example, how am I supposed to survive three whole days — and two nights — alone with Emily?