I hated to think like Wolfgang, but I'd pay him if that was what he wanted. It was only money.
He sighed as if I was the most annoying person he'd ever had the misfortune to meet. Hey, maybe don't break into someone's apartment if you don't like them.
"You killed my father," he said.
I raised my hands to either side.
"Look, I like that movie as much as the next person, but I really have no idea what you're talking about. I haven't killed anyone. I don't even like stepping on ants."
He scoffed.
"Yeah right. I know exactly what you did."
"Would you like to share that with the class?" I asked.
Now probably wasn't the time for sarcasm but if he wasn't going to explain what was going on, he might as well kill me and get it over with.
I inched over toward the piano bench.
"Why are you pretending you don't know?" he asked. "Everyone knows, even if the cops can't prove it."
"I mean, you've come here into my apartment and threatened me, accused me of doing something I didn't do." My heart sank and my hands went with it. "If this is about Wolfgang…"
"Of course it’s about fucking Wolfgang," he snarled.
I tried to put two and two together, but the math wasn't mathing.
"Wolfgang doesn't have a son," I said finally.
"Of course he does, or I wouldn't exist," he said. Okay, ten points for logic.
"Do you?" I asked. As far as I know, he had no kids. This made no sense. "Maybe I'm hallucinating." That would be right, I finally get a chance to move on with my life, and I lose my mind instead.
"You're not hallucinating," he said.
"Maybe I'm dreaming." Moving slowly, I pinch the inside of my arm. "Ow, that hurt. I guess I'm not dreaming. But I might still be hallucinating."
"You're not." He let out a frustrated breath and stomped over to me. He raised his arm, the one without the knife. "Feel for yourself."
"I don't think that's a good idea," I said slowly. "What if you're not real?" This whole thing was freaking me out enough as it is. And if he was real, that knife was awfully close already.
He put his arm up under my nose.
"Feel," he insisted, my hand shaking.
I poked him in the side of the arm. His bicep was firm under the layer of black fabric.
"Is that a Balenciaga t-shirt?" I asked. "Nice."
"It's…" He sputtered and pulled his arm back. "It doesn't matter what it is. You get it, right? I'm real. Wolfgang Taylor-Francis was my father."
I sighed softly.
"I'm so sorry."
"So you admit what you did?" He looked at me sidelong.
"Oh, hell no," I said. "I'm sorry you're related to him. He was a prick."
