And Percy had done more than carry it.

He had thought about it.

He had not blurted it out in a panic; he had waited until they were alone on a bench in a park, away from the house, and he had asked Ellard not to confront his father, because he understood, in whatever way a six-year-old understands such things, that a confrontation would bring the anger down on all of them. Just follow him one day. It was almost strategic, that instinct — the child had grasped, without being able to name it, that the truth had to be discovered rather than accused, that his grandfather had to see it for himself.

Ellard did not know yet that his grandson had just saved his daughter’s life with a whisper.

He only knew that the boy’s small face had gone tight and old for a moment, and that whatever had put that look there was worth more of his attention than six years of easy assumptions had been.

Chapter 2 — Six Years of Wire Transfers