Aaron taught him to fish.
To change a tire.
To throw a baseball.
He also taught him that police were the people you called when everyone else failed.
Then federal agents arrested him.
For years Luke tried to solve the contradiction by choosing one Aaron.
Either his father had secretly been a monster his entire life.
Or the government had exaggerated mistakes.
Neither explanation survived evidence.
The truth was worse because it was ordinary.
Aaron could be patient with his son and cruel to a stranger.
He could fix an elderly neighbor’s porch and participate in extortion.
He could believe himself protective while using fear against people with less power.
Good acts did not erase bad ones.
Bad acts did not mean every childhood memory had been fake.
Luke hated that complexity.
At first.
Later he depended on it.
His mother divorced Aaron after conviction.
She moved to Tennessee.
Luke visited prison twice.
The first visit lasted forty minutes.
His father said:
“I made mistakes.”
Luke stood.
“That’s not enough.”
Aaron stared.
“What?”
“You keep saying mistakes like you forgot an anniversary.”
“I pled guilty to—”
“You didn't.”
Aaron stopped.
He had not pled guilty.
He had been convicted.
Luke continued:
“You still talk like things happened around you.”
“I was found guilty.”
“That isn't the same as saying you did it.”
Aaron’s face hardened.
“You came here to lecture me?”
“No.”
Luke looked at him.
“I came because my son asked if Grandpa was a bad man.”
Aaron went still.
Luke continued:
“I don't know what to tell him.”
His father looked down.
“What did you say?”
“I said Grandpa did bad things.”
Aaron nodded slowly.
“That’s probably right.”
It was the first honest sentence Luke heard from him.
Their relationship changed after that.
Not repaired.
Changed.
Luke visited once or twice a year.
Sometimes Aaron blamed Briggs.
Sometimes policy.
Sometimes fear.
Eventually, slowly, he began using first-person verbs.
I stopped her.
I pushed her.
I let Doss break the windshield.
I lied in reports.
I helped seize cars.
I assumed certain people would not fight back.
I liked feeling powerful.
That last sentence took years.
When Luke read Ava Greene’s school project online, he recognized Dorothy’s name.
His father had mentioned her in one letter.
Luke printed the project.
Took it to prison.
Aaron was older now.
Hair almost completely gray.
He read slowly.
Then stopped.
“This is her granddaughter?”
“Great-granddaughter.”
Aaron nodded.
“She got wrist surgery.”
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you acting surprised?”
Aaron did not answer.
Luke leaned forward.
“Dad.”
“I knew she said she was hurt.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Aaron stared at the page.
Then:
“I told myself she exaggerated.”