“You used a fake death record to cash an insurance payout,” I said.

“You don’t understand how things worked thirty-four years ago,” Gene said, flicking his wrist to check his gold watch.

“Frank showed up at my door broke and desperate with a four-year-old girl in his back seat.

I did what a brother is supposed to do.”

“Claire is alive and living on Birch Street in Pine Ridge,” I said.

Gene stared at me for three long seconds and didn’t blink.

“Some old stones are better left face down in the mud,” he said, his voice falling into a quiet threat.