Fiona lay crumpled beside the floral trunk, one hand pressed to her cheek. Jasper stepped between them, his breath sharp, his tone the one that made conference rooms obey.
“Enough." He lifted a palm toward Caroline. “You don't get to hit people because you're upset."
Caroline didn't look at his hand, only at his eyes. “Where is my father buried?"
“At home," he said. “Put the knife down. Sit. Breathe."
“What knife," she answered, even as the room supplied it for her: a small fruit knife on a floral napkin by a bowl of over‑polished pears. Fiona had placed it there like hospitality in a magazine. Caroline picked it up, not fast, not dramatic—simply, as you pick up a pen to sign what you've already decided.
Jasper stilled. “Caroline." Her name carried warning and plea. “You're not going
