I was smart enough to bring the deed with me, so we’re able to obtain clearance to enter the apartment, but it takes a while. Of course, Armstrong bitches the entire time—until I threaten to knock out his teeth.

The sinking feeling that’s taken over since I found this particular file dominates as we enter the penthouse. It’s two thousand square feet of modern space. The eat-in kitchen has a small table. I run my finger across the wood surface, and they come away dust-free, which indicates someone has either been here or cleaned recently. Either way, it means this place is being taken care of. The living room boasts a wide couch and a flat-screen TV, but not much else in terms of furniture or décor. It doesn’t look very lived in, at least at first glance.

I check the fridge and find three bottles of high-end white wine, two very expensive bottles of champagne, and a jug of fresh-squeezed organic orange juice. It’s the brand my father favored, and it’s past its expiration date. Fresh orange juice has a short shelf life, so it couldn’t have been here that long, which means someone has definitely been here in the last few weeks, possibly right before my father died.

Armstrong appears behind me with an empty bin meant for groceries.

“Where’d you find that?”

He thumbs over his shoulder. “In the pantry.”

“Is there anything else in there?”

“Just some canned stuff, I think.” He shoulders his way past me and starts emptying the bottles of wine and champagne into the bin.

“What’re you doing?”

He glances over his shoulder. His expression indicates he thinks I’m an idiot for asking. “It’s good wine. I’m taking it home.”

“Sometimes I’m honestly baffled we share the same DNA.” I leave him to his scavenging and check out the pantry.

I have a feeling my suspicions about this place are right. The wine and champagne seem to fit my theory; this is where my dad brought his mistresses. I have to assume it’s a plural and there wasn’t just one.

I step inside the large room, and as soon as I get a load of the contents, I have a hell of a lot more questions. Lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves are several rows of cereal boxes. Sure there are a few other items, such as preserves, peanut butter, noodles and canned sauces, but the majority of the shelf space is taken up by sugary treat cereal we were never allowed to eat as kids.

I pick up a box of Cocoa Pebbles. It’s good for another six months. My dad was always such a healthy eater, mostly because Gwendolyn would bitch at him if he so much as looked at sugar the wrong way. Holy fuck. What if my dad had an entire second family? One where the kids got to eat whatever fucking cereal they felt like. It’s the thing soap operas are based on. And those bad afternoon talk shows.

Shelving the box, I cross through the living room and peek into the master bedroom. It looks normal. The huge four-poster bed is decorated in feminine colors. The comforter is gray and pink. The room looks a lot more lived in than the rest of the place, which again leads me to believe this is definitely where he would take his mistress. I check the closet and find both men’s and women’s clothing. Based on the sizing and the style, none of it belonged to my mother either. Beyond that, the cereal brings up a whole new set of concerns. Like maybe he knocked one of his mistresses up, and this was where he hid her. And if that’s the case, where was she now?

I leave the master bedroom and head down the hall, terrified I’m going to find a second bedroom outfitted for a kid. Instead, I stumble on something incredibly weird.

I don’t find a kid’s bedroom, but what I do find leaves me with a lot more questions than it does answers. It’s another bedroom, but clearly it’s not meant for sleeping. I’m not sure what exactly goes on in here, or whether I really want to know at all. It’s like costume and prop central—but with a highly sexual twist.

One wall of the bedroom is lined with what appears to be costumes. I have a vague memory of how much my father loved dressing up for Halloween. However, I didn’t need it to be connected to his apparently active and kinky sex life.

I might’ve been able to get over the costumes and kink, but then I get a load of the elaborate restraint system I apparently missed the first time I glanced at the bed. On the nightstand is a giant economy-size tub of lube. And the cherry on the sundae is the sex swing in the corner.

“Linc, I found something—” Armstrong comes into the room holding what at first looks like one of those adult onesies that have been all the rage. “What the hell is this?”