Below it played a video: the Pembroke tower downtown, police filling the lobby, and coming out the front doors in handcuffs — my brother, Raymond. He still wore his good suit, but his face was white with fear.

The favored son, paraded across the evening news while his own employees watched him hauled away.

I watched just long enough to see the cruiser doors close behind him.

Alistair sat down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t glance at the phone or the headline. He looked at me, and at our son.

He laid his big, warm hand over mine, covering the screen. “It’s over now,” he said gently.

“Yes,” I breathed. “It really is.”