And in the space of a breath, watching a lawyer and two investigators file into the room, that look changed into something entirely different.

For the first time, he was not looking at his sister.

He was looking at a witness.

The one he should have been afraid of all along.

My father had told me this would happen.

In the last weeks, when it was just the two of us in that room at night, he had explained it to me carefully, the way he explained everything: that grief makes greedy people careless, that Leon would not be able to help himself, that the surest way to catch a man like your brother is not to accuse him but to give him enough silence and enough confidence to walk all the way into the trap on his own. Don’t show him what you know, my father had said, gripping my hand with what strength he had left. Let him show everyone what he is. At the time it had felt like a strange, cold thing to ask of a daughter at her father’s deathbed.