I protected the questions he had been asking.
I protected the evidence he had gathered.
And, in the end, I protected the version of my son that mattered more than every newspaper description put together.
Not the entrepreneur.
Not the decedent.
Not the insured.
Callum.
My boy, standing in my kitchen with rain on his coat and fear in his eyes, still careful enough to wipe his shoes on the mat.
Sometimes on Sundays I make pot roast.
I brew one small pot of coffee and turn the machine off the moment it is finished.
Then I sit at the table where he told me he had moved twelve million dollars into my name because he needed it somewhere safe.
For months, I thought he had been talking only about money.
Now I understand he was talking about the truth too.
