“I have a contractor looking at it next week,” I said.
Richard, Ethan’s father, tapped his heavy signet ring against his water glass. The sound was flat and dry, like a dry branch snapping in the woods.
“Ethan tells me the new heavy machinery leases are ready for signature,” Richard said, his slow drawl filling the room. “We just need you to co-sign on the commercial line to finalize the rate.”
I passed the bowl of roasted potatoes to Diane, keeping my hand perfectly steady.
“I am not expanding my personal liabilities this quarter,” I said.
Richard did not take the bowl. He kept his eyes on Ethan, his brow furrowing into three deep lines that shadowed his eyes.
“We discussed this on Tuesday, Ethan,” Richard said.
Ethan stared down at his plate, twisting his wedding band around his finger under the edge of the table. He did not answer his father, nor did he look at me.
“The potatoes are excellent, Diane,” I said, setting the bowl down on the trivet. “Did you use the rosemary from the garden?”
“I trimmed the rosemary bushes yesterday before the ground got too soft,” I said.
Diane picked up her wine glass, her manicured hand steady, but she did not drink. “Your grandmother always kept the garden immaculate, Natalie. She believed the exterior of a home reflected the quality of the marriage inside it.”
“My grandmother also kept her own ledger,” I said.
Diane did not answer. She was looking at the small red mark that had begun to bloom on my left wrist, just below the gold watch.
“It is just that family businesses require everyone to pull together,” Diane said, her voice dropping a fraction of an octave. “When Richard was starting the firm, I managed the books and signed whatever was put in front of me.”
“The risk profile for construction is different now,” I said.
Richard set his fork down with a quiet click.
“We are not talking about risk, Natalie. We are talking about family.”
I took a sip of water and said nothing.
By ten that night, the house was quiet except for the rain starting to tap against the leaded glass windows in the upstairs hallway.
I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down into the darkened kitchen. Just above the pantry door, a tiny blue light glowed on the newly installed security sensor.
The technician from Oakridge Security had spent two hours positioning the lens so that it captured both the kitchen island and the dining table without being visible from the main living area. He had tucked the wires behind the crown molding, leaving only the tiny lens and the blue status light.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened the app. The video stream was sharp, showing the empty kitchen island, the brass pantry key sitting by the sink, and the wide mahogany dining table through the open doorway.
The resolution was high enough to see the texture of the wood and the shadow of the chandelier.
A floorboard creaked near the master bedroom.
I closed the application and slid the phone into my pocket just as Ethan stepped into the hallway, his face shadowed in the dim light. He had changed into his grey fleece pullover, the one with the Mercer Custom Homes logo embroidered in navy thread on the chest.
