Sitting in Marie’s living room, Lucas appeared stunned as he glanced from me to Connor, his gaze finally coming to rest on the photo where it sat on the coffee table. Then he reached over and picked up the snapshot, eyes narrowing. “Andre Wilcox. Jesus Christ.”
“So you knew him?” I asked.
“Well, he was my cousin — okay, we’re all cousins, in one way or another — so yes, I knew him. Not well, since that branch of the family was a little standoffish, and he was about seven years older than I was. Enough that we weren’t in the same subgroup of kids who hung out together at family parties, that sort of thing.”
Lucas shifted on the couch, the photo still in his hand. Again I was struck by how he had to be about the least warlock-looking warlock I’d ever met, with his expensive jeans and golf
