Greg entered the salon, bringing with him the scent of expensive cologne and desperation. He was a handsome man in a superficial way—slicked-back hair, a smile that showed too many teeth, and eyes that never quite settled. He had married my daughter, Elena, three years ago. Elena was blinded by love; I was blinded by nothing. I had seen the gambling debts, the failed investments, the hunger in his eyes when he looked at my art collection.

“Dad,” Greg said, his voice dripping with a synthetic warmth. He held two crystal flutes of champagne. “Why are you sitting in here all alone? The moon is incredible tonight. You really should come out to the deck. The sea air… it’s good for the circulation.”

I looked at him, letting my head lull slightly to the side. “The moon?” I repeated, my voice raspy. “Is it… is it full?”

“It’s beautiful, Dad,” he urged, stepping closer. “Come on. Just for a few minutes. Elena is already asleep. It’ll be just us men.”

Just us men. The phrase hung in the air. I knew what it meant. No witnesses.