Chapter 4

The dining room had transformed in her absence. The warmth was gone, replaced by a brittle, frantic energy. Ramona stood at the head of the table, her burgundy cardigan wrapped tight across her chest, her sharp blue-grey eyes flicking between Lucas and Bennett. Bennett had risen from his chair and was pacing slowly along the sideboard, his fingers tracing the neck of the red wine bottle. Marlene remained seated, her plump hands folded on the tablecloth, her face pale. Lucas stood where she had left him, his arms crossed, his jaw working.

They all turned when Vera entered.

Her low silver heels clicked against the hardwood. She walked back to her chair at the foot of the table, but she didn't sit. She stood behind it, her hands resting on the back, the phone in her left hand, the screen still lit.

"Isla left," Ramona said, her voice accusing. "She took the baby and just—left. Did you say something to her?"

"I told her she was welcome to leave," Vera said. "I told her she didn't have to witness any more of this."

"This doesn't concern her," Bennett said. He had stopped pacing, his hand resting on the wine bottle. "This is between us. Between family."

"Family," Vera repeated. She looked around the room—at the walnut table, at the scattered porcelain fragments, at the shard still lying beside Lucas's empty plate. "This is what family looks like to you?"

Lucas uncrossed his arms. "Vera, please. Just—let's talk about this. Let's sit down and talk about this like—"

"Like what?" Vera asked. "Like the adults you were pretending to be when you decided to take my home? Like the family you were pretending to be when you sat there and watched your mother plan my financial ruin?"

"We weren't planning your financial ruin," Ramona snapped. "We were planning for my safety. I need a safe place to—"

"You own three homes," Vera said, not for the first time. Her voice was flat, patient. "You own three homes, Ramona, and you want the one I paid for. You want my income because you don't want to touch your own assets. That's not safety. That's theft."

"It's not theft when it's family," Bennett said. "You married into this family. What's ours is yours, and what's yours is—"

"Ours?" Vera turned to him, and Bennett's mouth closed with a click. "Is that the deal? I gave you six years of my income, and that made everything I own community property? I don't remember signing a contract that said my salary belongs to your family's retirement plan."

"There's no need to be dramatic," Ramona said. Her voice was cold, controlled. "We're just asking for a modest arrangement. You make more than enough to—"