The drive out to Oak Brook along the Eisenhower Expressway was silent. Vance drove his newly unencumbered Audi, his knuckles pale against the perforated leather steering wheel. He hadn’t asked what I spent my afternoon doing, and I hadn’t volunteered the information.

“When we get inside,” Vance said as we exited onto the winding, manicured suburban roads of DuPage County, “just let Mom talk first. She likes to set the tone.”

“I’m sure she does,” I replied, looking out the window at the heavy brick mansions hidden behind towering emerald arborvitae. “She sets the tone, Tatum sets the trap, and you pull the curtains.”

Vance’s jaw twitched. “Why do you have to frame everything like an ambush? It’s dinner. Tatum spent four hours preparing dinner. Do you know how hard it is for her to apologize?”

“If someone stabs you in the hand, Vance, their apology shouldn’t require a four-hour braise. It requires an admission of guilt, an offer to pay the medical bill, and a psychiatric evaluation.”

We pulled up the circular aggregate driveway of Loretta’s colonial residence. It was an imposing structure of red brick, white portico columns, and high-gloss black shutters, though a trained eye could spot the deferred maintenance: the slate roof had three cracked tiles near the western chimney, and the cast-iron sconces flanking the double front door were pitted with rust.

The front door opened before we reached the bottom step.

Loretta stood there wearing an embroidered cashmere tunic, her dyed auburn hair set in an immaculate, lacquer-stiff bob. Beside her stood Tatum, wearing an oversized knit sweater with sleeves pulled over her hands, her face carrying that petulant, victimized sulk unique to adult children who have never been told no.

“There they are,” Loretta announced, her voice honeyed and resonant. “The newlyweds. Come in out of the damp, Sloane. You look drawn. Are you eating enough protein?”

“I eat plenty, Loretta,” I said, stepping across the threshold without offering an embrace. “My health is exceptional.”

Tatum shifted her weight, refusing to meet my eyes. She muttered something under her breath that sounded vaguely like, “Hello.”

“Tatum,” Loretta corrected sharply, a razor hidden beneath the maternal velvet. “What did you want to say to your sister-in-law?”

Tatum exhaled dramatically, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling chandelier before dropping them to my chest. “I’m sorry about Sunday. The crab legs were fresh from the market, and I thought you knew we always portion them out by head count first. My reflexes were just… fast. I didn’t mean to graze your skin.”

*Graze.* The wounds had bled through two cotton napkins.

“I accept your acknowledgment of the event,” I said evenly. I did not say *I forgive you.* I did not say *It’s okay.*

Loretta smiled, a tight, triumphant stretching of skin. “Good. That’s behind us. Now, come into the study. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, but before we break bread, Keith dropped off the paperwork we discussed this morning.”

I stopped in the center of the Persian runner in the foyer. “Keith? Your attorney cousin?”

“Just family business, Sloane,” Vance said quickly, touching the small of my back. I stepped forward, deliberately breaking the contact.

“Let’s see the paperwork, Loretta,” I said. “I’m always fascinated by your family’s documentation.”

***