Kuyper grimaced. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad do you think it would be if—“

“At least a twenty.” The crusty old man finished Kuyper’s sentence abruptly. He threw a contemptuous glance in his direction. “Now. If you’ll leave me to my own business, I’d be glad to lock the door behind you.” He turned away, heading for the back door of the shop.

“No, no, no.” Kuyper slid between him and the door. “No. Not until you tell me who you are. And how you got that thing.”

“What thing.” His voice sounded like it was in an old can.

“You know what thing. That.” he pointed.

The old man, Dr. Lewis according to the little plaque on the door, didn’t even look. “Pfffffffffft. Nothing you need to know about.”

“No.” Kuyper blocked the door, his temperature and his voice rising. “That has my father’s name on it. I am sure of it. Did you know my father? Were you there?”

Dr. Lewis rolled his bloodshot eyes.

Kuyper tightened his grip on the doorframe, until his knuckles were white. “Who killed my father?”