“I was with the police when your father’s body was found. He’d died of natural causes, had false identification, and his fingerprints weren’t in the system. The police were going to drop it and let him be buried as a John Doe. I thought someone out there might care that he was dead.”
“Well, you were wrong,” she said, then got up and walked away, turning her back to us.
I sighed.
“Congratulations,” Monk said.
“More sarcasm?”
“Why do you keep accusing me of being sarcastic? I’m not that kind of person. I meant what I said. You did a good job on this case.”
“This wasn’t the way I expected it to turn out.”
“What were you expecting?”
“To feel like a hero,” I said.
“Is that why you solved the mystery?” Monk asked. “For praise and gratitude?”
“Why do you do it?”
“Because I have to. I don’t have a choice. But you did.”
“Maybe not,” I said.
“You don’t know?”
“I felt compelled to investigate, but maybe not in the same way that you do or for the same reasons. It’s not clear to me now.”
“Perhaps it will be next time,” he said.
“What makes you sure there will be a next time?”
“My work is never done.”
“So neither is mine?”
“You’re my assistant, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then you’re doomed,” he said.