Any sign of comfort, any wire transfer, any improvement in how he lived, and they would have descended on him, audited every account, traced every transaction, and followed the paper trail until it led them, eventually, to a quiet young woman working as a nursing volunteer in Boston.

His poverty was not misfortune, Evelyn.

It was armor.

It was the disguise he wore for two decades so that no one would ever have reason to look past him to you.”

Mr.

Vance stepped closer, and his voice dropped, and for the first time the lawyer fell away and there was only a man who had watched his friend do an almost unbearable thing.

“He stayed poor,” he said, “so that you could stay invisible, until he was dead and finally beyond their reach, and you were safe.