Because the crash, as Teresa would later say, was an accident.

What came after was not.

For three years, Santiago had lived inside his brother’s name, and every one of those days had been a fresh choice to keep lying.

He had stood at a graveside and bowed his head over a stone carved with his own name, knowing his brother lay beneath it.

He had walked his mother to that grave and steadied her while she laid down flowers for the wrong son.

He had watched his own daughter cry for a father she believed was in heaven, when that father was standing right beside her wearing another man’s life.