We emerge from the kitchen, a tray of cups and saucers jangling, the aroma of rich, sweet coffee paving the way for us. At least, that’s what I hope it’s doing.
Everyone is milling about in the living room. I peer into the dining room and see the dishes neatly stacked on the table and all the chairs pushed in.
Malcolm, I think, is responsible for these feats. Now, in the living room, he paces—or does when his father doesn’t toss him a glare and halt him in his tracks. He looks desperate for something to do, and his face lights up when he sees us enter. He rushes forward and takes the tray from my hands.
“How’s it going?” I whisper.
Malcolm’s gaze darts toward Nigel and Darien. “Tense. It’s tense, but civil. Probably because there are witnesses.” He nods toward Jack, standing at the man
