“That answer,” I say. “On page seventy-two. You put the wrong ruling. It’s actually clause twenty-seven, not twenty-nine. There was a revision last year.” He stares at me for a long moment.
Then he leans back against the booth, arms folding lazily across his chest.
“And how the hell do you know that?” I shrug, feeling awkward.
“I pay attention in class,” I mutter, going back to cleaning.
I hear him flip a page, muttering something under his breath, when the bell over the diner door jingles again.
I straighten automatically, shoving the rag into my apron pocket.
A tall woman steps inside, bundled in a neat coat and scarf, carrying a large purse. I recognize her instantly.
Mrs. Graves.
Rykers’s mother.
She walks with the kind of effortless grace only old money and strong bloodlines
