It is a strange, cold clarity, the moment a story you have been living inside turns inside out and shows you its real shape.

In the space of Raymond’s confession, eight months of my life rearranged themselves one last time, and everything that had confused me became obvious.

I understood, at last, why Gregory had worked so hard and so patiently to make me fear Christopher — not out of any jealousy, but because a devoted father was a structural problem for the scheme, a second adult who would notice, who would ask, who could not be charmed or isolated the way I could.

I understood why he had asked, over and over, in that mild curious way, about Abigail’s registration at my mother’s address — not out of interest in her school, but because a child officially domiciled elsewhere was a box that needed checking before a home could be quietly sold.