He had spent three weeks scheming to sell a house that could not be sold, forging the signature of a woman who had signed it away long ago, to a buyer who could never have received clear title.

The whole magnificent plan had been built, from the first day, on a foundation of air.

I had placed the house in trust eleven years before, and not because I distrusted my son.

At the time I had no reason to.

I did it because I had spent my career watching families destroyed by the absence of a document — watching estates devoured, heirs turned against each other, homes lost because no one had thought to build a wall around the thing that mattered while everyone still loved each other.

So I built the wall early, in a season of peace, the way you buy insurance you hope never to need.