I had been telling myself a story in which Brandon, under some pressure I didn’t understand, had genuinely believed the money was stolen, had genuinely, wrongly, suspected my mother, and had lost control in a way that was inexcusable but at least human, at least a failure rather than a design.

The envelope closed that door forever.

He had lent Liam the money on Sunday.

He had watched Liam walk out with it.

He had known, with total certainty, every second of that Tuesday, that the drawer was empty because he had emptied it — and he had chosen, knowing that, to point at my grieving mother and call her a thief, and to strike her when she wouldn’t confess to a crime that existed only in his script.

It was not a man losing control.