He was undone by the truth’s stubborn refusal to stay where he buried it — carried down the mountain, of all things, by the storm that was supposed to erase me, and by a dead man’s caution sitting silent in a dashboard, and by the one detail his arrogance could not account for, which is that the woman on the ledge did not die.

The truth of what he did survived, because I survived, and because my father, from beyond his own grave, had been quietly recording.

I have come to believe there is a kind of law in this, deeper than the legal kind: that the truth does not actually stay buried, not forever, not reliably, no matter how remote the mountain or how heavy the snow.

It waits.

And sometimes it waits inside the very people its buriers were most certain they had silenced.

Chapter 19 — Strong