Talk to nicely.

Even now, after everything that's happened, I still believe my uncle Thomas was a good man.

Thomas, of course, is just a pseudonym.

My uncle's real name is one that you might recognize if he watched the news regularly.

Although he never had a PR team or a security detail, he was famous enough that

my parents warned me to never tell strangers who he was. A few times, unscrupulous reporters

even cornered me after school, hunting for juicy gossip about his private life. To me,

their questions didn't make any sense. Uncle Thomas wasn't some formidable figure standing

behind a podium. He was just the fit, middle-aged guy with glasses who ran the barbecue on

the 4th of July. If someone had asked me what was special about him, I would have talked about

how his clothes always matched and how he always remembered to call you on your birthday.

Maybe it was that thoughtfulness that always made us kids feel so comfortable around him.

No matter what went wrong, Uncle Thomas would find a way to take care of it.

Or so we thought back then.

Every year, I looked forward to spending my vacations at his estate in the country.

It wasn't just the swimming pool, the huge backyard, or the two-story house with so many echoing rooms to explore.

It was getting to hang out with my cousins, Sam and Brady.

Sam was just a few months younger than me, while Brady was two years older,

and the three of us had been getting into trouble together ever since before we could walk.

Then, one summer night, Brady unveiled a secret.

The three of us were lying on the floor of Sam's room,

feeling sluggish and lazy from eating too much of Aunt Ellen's delicious pineapple cake. We were all wide awake,

...