Page 31

Emily’s uncle Thomas sits at the head of the table, surveying the room with that cool detachment that’s always made my forensic brain itch. It did even before everything happened. His sister-in-law, Nora, sits to his left; his wife, Katherine, to his right—drained and drawn, her grief written in every careful movement.

The air each of the Langleys emits couldn’t be more polar opposite, and Nora seems as uncomfortable as hell sitting next to them.

It doesn’t take long into dinner for me to figure out why. The food’s perfect, the lighting’s soft. Napkins unfold, glasses clink, but there's a tension that emanates from every corner of the room, volatile as a chemical fume, waiting for someone to light the match.

Thomas sets his wine glass down with a sharp clink. “I assume everyone’s caught up on the new tax proposal?”

Nora snorts. “Caught up? I’ve been rage-scrolling about it for three days. It’s a masterpiece in screwing over anyone who isn’t already sitting on a trust fund.”

Thomas looks at her, unimpressed. “You say that like having to work hard is a bad thing.”

“Oh, please,” she fires back. “You mean hard work for other people’s profit. The rich stay rich, and the rest of this godforsaken country gets austerity and lectures about pulling themselves up by their bootstraps.”

I’ve officially decided I like Nora.

Thomas slices into his steak, not even looking up. “You say that as if you weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”

And I’ve officially decided I really don’t like Thomas.

“Oh, good. This conversation again,” Emily groans, then whispers loudly. “I apologize in advance for the fact that Uncle Thomas is a dipshit.”

Baryn, surprisingly, grunts in agreement.

Nora ignores them both. “I think you mean the billionaires who treat campaign donations like shopping sprees and still whine about paying taxes.”

Thomas exhales, the sound pure disdain. “It’s called capitalism, Nora. You’re welcome to find another system if you hate this one so much.”

Evelyn glances upward briefly. “Ah, the ‘leave the country’ defense. Lovely.”

Thomas points his fork at her. “Maybe if more people stopped blaming the system for their own bad decisions, we wouldn’t need all these so-called safety nets.”

Emily crosses her eyes at him and sticks out her tongue. “You mean people who aren’t born rich and still want to eat? The nerve.”

Nora leans back in her chair. “Tell me, Thomas, how many bootstrap metaphors does it take before you realize some people don’t even have shoes?”

His lip curls. “Maybe they should’ve made better choices.”

I nearly choke on my baked oyster, an ache forming just behind the center of my frontal bone as a simmering rage coils in my chest. Every fiber of my being is vibrating with the itch to hurl my plate across the room—or, better yet, directly at Thomas’s old bastard face.

Then, under the table, Theo’s hand finds my knee. An innocent, steady, grounding squeeze.

I nearly fall off my chair.

He doesn’t move his hand.

The warmth of his palm seeps through the thin fabric of my dress, his fingers firm but not demanding. Just there. Solid. Unwavering. A gentle reassurance.

Or maybe a warning.

Katherine clears her throat timidly. “Why don’t we all just⁠—”

“Agree to disagree?” Thomas interrupts.

Nora looks like she wants to stab him with her salad fork. I kind of wish she would.

“It’s just that, maybe we could talk about other things? Right now. While⁠—”

“We’ve been over this, dear,” he says, dripping with exasperation, the way only an asshole spouse can manage. “Carrying on with our daily routines helps speed up the grieving process. That’s why we’re here, why we didn’t cancel our weekly family dinner. It’s not like you were all that close with your brother’s wife to begin with.”