Late in the evening after the dull drive from Las Vegas, I pulled up at my dad’s apartment on Las Virgenes Road in the town of Calabasas, about forty-five minutes up the coast from Santa Monica and a dozen miles inland from the ocean. I found him absolutely devastated about Adam, harboring a suspicion of foul play. The normal routine of Dad’s life—running his general contracting business, watching the TV news, reading the newspaper over breakfast, taking trips to the Channel Islands to go boating, going to occasional synagogue services—was torn apart. I knew my moving in with him would pose challenges—he was never an easy man to deal with—but I wasn’t going to let that stand in my way. He needed me.