“I didn’t steal a single thing from you, Julian,” I said, and my voice was quiet and clear.

“Your father gave it to me, freely, of his own sound mind.

And do you want to know why?” I reached into my pocket, and I drew out the yellowed photograph from 1981, and I held it up, so that both he and Beatrice could see it plainly: the young man in the dark wool coat, on the courthouse steps, holding the hand of a little girl in a bright yellow raincoat.

“Look closely,” I said.