He needed my live authorization to do it; the deep structures required my biometrics, a fact he had always found a tedious formality and never once a danger.

He set his tablet on the table in front of me with the indulgent patience of a man humoring an invalid.

“Julia,” he said, warm as ever.

“There are some routine transfers your father’s trust requires, and with everything you’ve been through, I’d like to simplify things for you.

Just your thumb, dear.

On the scanner.” I looked at Charles Mercer — the man who had stolen from my father for two decades, who had fed my husband forged papers to keep me distracted, who had sat at my father’s funeral and held my hand — and I felt my heart begin, obediently, to race.

Which was exactly what I needed it to do.