The apartment smells like her perfume and something burned in the kitchen. Marlowe is sitting on the edge of the couch, mascara tracking down her cheeks, hands folded tight in her lap like she's holding herself together by sheer will. She says she's sorry. She says it just happened. She can't meet your eyes. You already know the name. You've known it for six rounds now - the same slow pattern, the same charming laugh from the next room, the same wreckage left behind. Your father has a gift for this. The only question left is whether you let her finish saying it.