I sat at that long dining table, the crystal glasses throwing sharp little sparks every time someone moved a hand. My mother sat at the far end, her back so straight she looked carved out of stone, her fork hovering two inches above her plate.
Julian sat directly across from me, his knife screeching against the porcelain as he hacked at his steak. At the head of the table, Andrew leaned back with one ankle resting on his knee. He looked like he owned the whole place and was doing the rest of us a favor by letting us sit there.
"You still haven’t explained why the foundation accounts are three weeks late, Andrew," Mom said, setting her fork down with a clean, sharp click. "The board is asking questions I can’t answer, and I have no patience left."
Andrew turned his wine glass by the stem
