“And he left a fortune in your name,” she went on, “that no one has been able to touch for eighteen years.”

A fortune, she was telling me, that someone had been willing to kill for — eighteen years ago, and again, in my own kitchen, a week before.

I understood in that instant that the knife and the highway were the same story, told twice, and that I had been at the center of it my whole life without ever being told there was a story at all.

Chapter 12 — The Trust