“She belonged to me,” he said simply. “She was, you know, all the things I wasn’t. And I was all the things she wasn’t. She could paint circles around anyone; I couldn’t even draw a straight line. She was never into sports; I had always been,” he lifted his outstretched palm and curled his fingers. “Her hand,” he said. “it fit mine.”

Jody Picoult, The pact