There was nothing in that morning to warn any of us, no darkening of the sky, no sense of an ending.

It was a Wednesday.

It was errands and small kindnesses and the ordinary business of a family.

And threaded invisibly through all of it was a man carrying a secret so large that within the hour it would kill his brother and rewrite all of our lives, and none of us could see it, because that is how catastrophe usually comes, not with trumpets but disguised as an ordinary Wednesday.

Chapter 22 — The Choice on Highway 71