What did you do?” I came down to find Sienna standing white-faced over the open drawer of Arthur’s desk, a folder in her shaking hands — not my folder, but his: his own copies of the Bellhaven settlement, kept, I suppose, the way some men keep trophies.

She had gone looking for something else and found the proof of what her father was, in his own filing cabinet, in his own hand.

“Sienna,” Arthur said, coming in behind me, his voice sliding instantly into its reasonable register.

“Put that down.

You don’t understand what you’re looking at.” But she did understand.

I watched it happen on her face — watched twenty-odd years of a daughter’s careful not-knowing collapse all at once, watched her finally let herself see the thing she must have half-seen her whole life.

“Sarah Pruitt,” she whispered.