“I’m good,” I lie. “Great.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he says, not looking up. “Oh good, here it is. I know I could have mailed it, but I wanted to see Mick and Lindy off in person, so I figured I may as well stop by.”

“Sure,” I say, refusing to be stung by the fact that he came all this way for his employees. Not for his son. Not for me. Never for me.

You reap what you sow, and all that.

He hands me a piece of paper, and I open it up, figuring it’s going to be some other stipulation or hoop I have to jump through in order to keep living here.

It’s far from it.

I frown. “Is this . . .”

“The deed to the house,” he says, shutting the briefcase with a click. “You fulfilled your end of the bargain. Three months with a caregiver.”

His voice is completely monotone. If he’s disappointed by how things turned out with Olivia, he doesn’t let on. It’s as though he doesn’t give a shit anymore.

I shake my head. “You’re giving me the house? Just like that?”

“I am.”

“What’s the catch?”

His expression is blank. “No catch.”

“Okay . . .” I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dad gives an impatient sigh. “The house is paid for. You’re on your own for the upkeep, of course, but you’ll get your inheritance in a month, when you turn twenty-five. I thought you’d be happier.”

I should be happy.

I should be ecstatic.

I can stay here as long as I want, free and clear. No playing my father’s games, no trying to hide how much I’m drinking from Lindy, nobody to badger me about exercising or eating right or, God forbid, “getting out more.”

I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I know that. And yet . . .

“I feel like I’m missing something,” I say slowly.

My father rubs his eyes. “I’m just . . . I can’t do this anymore, Paul.”

The tension in my chest tightens. “Do what?”

“Help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. I thought putting Olivia out here to mess with your mind would work, and on some level I know it has. You don’t look like death, and you’re not half-drunk every time I see you.”

“I’m still going to Frenchy’s,” I interrupt. “Sorry if that pisses you off, but—”

“Stop.” He holds up a hand. “I was wrong to get mad about that. It’s only because I didn’t want you to get hurt. I thought it was too soon, but I was wrong. In fact, I only wish I’d pushed you to do it sooner. And I wish you’d push yourself to do more than skulk around a local bar in Bar Harbor for the rest of your life.”

I groan. “Not you too.”

My father’s lips tighten, but if he’s talked to Olivia and knows how we left things, he doesn’t say so.

“I love you, Paul.”

I swallow.

“I love you very much, and it’s because of that that I’m not going to watch you do this anymore. You want to live here all alone until you’re wrinkled and even meaner than you are now, I’m not going to stop you.”

“No more babysitters?”

“None,” he says, standing. “All but the last one were a waste of time, and even she couldn’t reach you in the way that I’d hoped.”

“Dad—” I take a deep breath and tell him what I should have told him a long time ago. Not because I want him to think me a hero, but because I can’t stand that he thinks I’ve been carelessly mooching off him for years. I want him to know that his money’s done something more than provide whisky to his worthless son.

“You know Alex Skinner?” I say, not really knowing where to begin.

“I know.”

“Well, he has—”

“I know, Paul. I know all of it. His wife, his daughter, their situation.”

I barely stop my mouth from gaping.

“When? How’d you—?”

“I’m proud of you,” he says, not bothering to answer my question about how he knew. Knowing him, he probably blackmailed the CIA or something. “I didn’t tell you I knew because it was the one worthwhile thing you seemed to care about, and I thought if I stuck my head in it, you’d abandon them just to spite me.”

I open my mouth to argue, but I’m half terrified he’s right. I really am that f**ked up.

“I’ll take care of them, Paul. You have my word. It’ll be the end of you getting checks from me directly, of course. But you’ll have the house.”

My brain is still racing to process it all. I don’t give a shit about the money; I’ll get by. Or the house either, for that matter. But this feels like . . . abandonment. “Wait,” I say. “So no more badgering about psych appointments or doctor’s appointments or—”

“No more anything, Paul. This visit will be my last.”

I don’t get up from my chair when he does. “Hold on. You’re not going to come by? Not going to be my dad anymore?”

His face crumples for a second before regaining its indifferent expression. “I’m in Boston. I’m always there if you want me. Always.”

His expression tells me he won’t be holding his breath for a visit. Nobody will holding their breath for a visit from me. I’ve made sure of that.

“You’re just walking away?” I say, raising my voice as he starts to leave.