The dining room was quieter than the phone call had been, but the tension was sharper.
Jack sat at the table already, in the grey sweats Evalyne had bought him this morning, the fabric matching perfectly from collar to ankle like he'd been poured into it. It was modest clothing by Evalyne's standards and still, somehow, it looked expensive on him because he looked expensive. That was an irritating problem she would deal with later.
He was fidgeting with the cutlery like it was a nervous habit he couldn't stop. Fork, knife, spoon. He lined them up, shifted them, tapped the knife once against the plate, stopped, then started again.
Across from him, Theresa sat with her doll propped on her lap, brushing its hair with solemn concentration. The doll's plastic eyes stared forward, unblinking.
