Leo had the board set up in the garden.
He'd chosen the spot carefully—a stone table beneath the wisteria, shaded from the late afternoon sun, with a view of the lake that turned the water into a sheet of hammered gold. The chess pieces were old, carved from ivory and ebony, the kind of heirloom that had probably witnessed a century of victories and defeats. He sat on one side of the table in his wheelchair, his hands folded in front of him, his gray eyes bright with anticipation.
I sat down across from him, still in the clothes I'd worn to Geneva. There was blood on my collar—not mine—and a bruise forming on my shoulder from the fall in the bank. I hadn't showered. I hadn't slept. I hadn't processed the fact that I'd looked into my sister's killer's eyes and walked away alive.
But Leo
