Whatever came next, this family was about to split wide open.
Brian made the mistake of smirking.
I call it a mistake because if he had blustered less—if he had played the patient son a little longer—Ethan might have taken me to dinner, listened to my excuses, and waited until morning before digging deeper. But Brian had inherited his father’s worst habit: mistaking years of getting away with something for proof that it was legal.
“What, you think because you wear a nice coat and flew in from Chicago, you can lecture me about my own house?” Brian said.
Ethan didn’t react. He reached into his portfolio, pulled out a business card, and handed it across the small space between them.
Brian glanced at it, and his face changed.
Ethan Cole, Assistant United States Attorney.
Melissa took the card from his hand and read it too. The color drained from her face. “Brian…”
He shoved the card back toward Ethan. “Federal prosecutor? Since when?”
“Since two years ago,” Ethan said. “And today I’m not here in any official capacity. I’m here as her grandson. So I’ll ask again. Whose name is on this property?”
I wanted to disappear. Not because I was afraid of Ethan, but because mothers like me are trained by difficult sons to fear conflict more than cruelty. “Please,” I said, “this doesn’t need to turn into a scene.”
