The flight back to O’Hare was the longest four hours of my life.

Julian sat beside me in first class, utterly content, drinking sparkling water and leafing through a financial magazine, reaching over now and then to pat Lily’s head while she colored in the activity book I’d bought her at the gate.

He was glowing with the specific satisfaction of a man who believes he has arranged everything perfectly.

At breakfast, Jim had signed the papers Julian slid across the table — I had watched it happen from behind my coffee cup, watched my brother’s steady hand, and felt a fierce private pride at how well he played it — and in Julian’s mind, the last door had closed, the money was safe, the liability was sealed, and nothing remained but to go home and resume his comfortable life.

Jim sat three rows back, his head down, pretending to sleep.