That patient, smiling, table-side patience shocked me.

It still does.

I stared at him, unable at first to make the words mean what they meant.

“They tried to kill you,” I said finally, and it came out as barely a breath.

“They are still trying,” Arthur corrected me, without drama, as though he had long since made his peace with it.

“Which is why I could not trust a will, or a lawyer, or my own children’s better natures.

I needed something they could not undo.