Gene let his arm fall to his side.

The cold wind caught his thin gray hair and blew it sideways across his forehead.

“Frank was my brother,” Gene said, his loud voice cutting cleanly through the sound of rain on the truck hood.

“He was out of his mind over that divorce.”

“You paid off a county clerk to fake my mother’s death,” I said.

“Claire was living in a two-room rented flat over a bakery in Pine Ridge,” Gene snapped.

He took two quick steps toward me, jabbing his pen at my chest.