He stepped closer, his heavy work boots marking the clean hardwood floor. He reached out and grabbed my wrist, right over the band of my grandmother’s watch, his fingers squeezing until the metal links pressed into my skin.
“We need to start thinking of your business as a family asset, Natalie,” he said.
I did not pull away, though the sharp pressure on my wrist made my fingers go numb. I looked directly into his eyes, watching the tiny muscle twitch beneath his left temple.
“Let go of my arm, Ethan,” I said.
He held on for one more second, just long enough to make it clear that he was choosing the moment of release, then dropped his hand and walked out the back door toward his truck. The heavy wood door did not latch completely, leaving a thin draft of autumn air to stir the lace curtains.
I picked up the brass pantry key, unlocked the small utility closet behind the refrigerator, and checked the main power brick for the broadband router.
The blue link light was steady.
At seven in the evening, the smell of expensive beeswax polish on the old mahogany dining table was nearly overtaken by the rich, heavy scent of pot roast. The rain had started, a steady drizzle that slicked the brick driveway outside and ran in dark streaks down the leaded glass windows.
Diane, Ethan’s mother, folded and refolded her linen napkin into a tight square before placing it beside her wine glass. She had driven her Mercedes sedan over from the north side of town just to deliver a set of silver candle snuffs we did not need, her presence a thin layer of social duty over what felt like an inspection.
“The brickwork on the chimney needs tuckpointing before winter, Natalie,” Diane said, her sharp command wrapped in a polite, airy tone. “It would be a shame to let your grandmother’s house slip into disrepair.”
