Our uncle.

Elliot Larkin.

The air went out of the room.

And for one terrible moment, three years of Roland’s poison did its work in me even then, even after everything — because Roland had told us, over and over, that Elliot was the real threat, the one waiting to steal from us, and my mother had cut off his calls the moment he started asking careful questions about the trust.

For one moment, I wondered if the man my father had trusted had been the danger all along.