I have replayed that half-second many times.

It was the first thing that told me my brother already knew this money existed, or knew something close enough to it that the sight of it frightened rather than amazed him.

We counted it out on the counter.

Eighteen thousand, nine hundred and forty dollars.

I looked at him.

“Forgot?” He didn’t answer.

There is nothing quite like counting a dead woman’s secret money on her own kitchen counter, the two of you passing bundles back and forth, not saying the things you’re both thinking.

Lonnie counted fast and wanted it over.