There was one more thing Brandon felt he had to do, and it had nothing to do with money.

He found Roderick’s son.

Roderick had had a son — Bradley — from a first marriage, a man of thirty-six now, living in Minneapolis, who had not spoken to his father in more than fifteen years.

Roderick had never said much about it, and Brandon had learned the shape of it only from Jace and from the man’s own belongings: a falling-out, years of silence, a father who had chosen his company over his boy one too many times and a son who had finally stopped forgiving him for it.

Brandon wrote to him. He explained everything that had happened, plainly, and he told Bradley that whatever the law said about the trust, his father’s personal things — his journals, the family photographs, the private and sentimental belongings that were no part of any fortune — belonged to him, and that Brandon would like to give them to him.

Bradley flew to Baltimore a month later. He was a quiet, reserved man, and he had his father’s jaw and his father’s serious eyes, and he stood for a long time in the foundation’s small headquarters in front of a portrait of Roderick that hung on the wall.