And sometimes, late at night, I think about the strangest part of all.
Preston believed money would save him.
Sabine believed betrayal would make her loved.
My mother believed control could protect her from loss.
Dr.
Crane believed a signature was only ink.
Every adult involved believed they understood exactly how the story would end.
But none of them accounted for one seven-year-old boy with cookie crumbs on his sweater looking through a narrow opening in a coffin.
None of them accounted for Julian.
Whenever people ask who saved my life, they expect me to say my mother.
Or Dr.
Benson.
Or Quade.
They’re wrong.
