As Elle collapsed back into her chair, her father cursed and rubbed his face with the towel. “Ultimately, it was my fault. I will be honest about that. It was . . . I was working too much, and she was grieving . . . and we . . . people drift apart.”
“But you were married.” Elle felt younger than her sister by ten years as she spoke in a fragile way. “You were in love. Once.”
“Things happen, Elle.” Her father’s eyes teared up. “People get older and events shape your life in ways you’d never predict. But the one thing she and I have always agreed on, and will always agree on, is that you and your sister are the best things we’ve ever done. That will never change. Ever.”
She thought of her mother’s dark apartment, and wasn’t sure how true that was.
“I’m really sorry, Elle—”
Terrie appeared in the archway, hair a mess, bare feet on the tile under the hems of her PJs, a yawn distorting her face. “What’s happening?”
Elle got her parka off the floor and stood up once again, this time with her backpack. “I’m going to go wait for the bus.”
Her father reached out. “Elle, it’s cold out there—”
“Do we still have school?” Terrie rubbed her eyes. “I thought it was going to be canceled ’cuz of snow.”
“The storm’s not here yet,” their father said. “It’s due late in the afternoon.”
“Actually, it already came,” Elle muttered as she walked out of the kitchen.
It was a relief to leave the house and not look back, even though her father was right. The morning was bitterly cold, and the air smelled like snow. God, she hoped they didn’t cancel school.
And who’d have thought that she’d wish for such a thing.
The good news? If there was any?
If Terrie spilled the beans on their little road trip, it was a drop in the fucking bucket after what her father had revealed.
It’s just a snowstorm. I don’t get what all the big deal is. We live in Caldwell, which is second only to fucking Buffalo for accumulation.”
As night fell that evening, First Meal was in full swing at the Brotherhood mansion, the household sitting around the thirty-foot-long dining table, platters of food laid out on the sideboards, all chairs filled. Families were gathered in the Vanderbilt-worthy room in lots of three and four, young on laps and in seats of their own, mated pairs side by side, brothers and fighters and the King all together. As it should be.
“I mean, how bad can this nor’easter be?”
Qhuinn glanced at Butch O’Neal, a.k.a. the Dhestroyer, who was the one playing indignant forecaster to his left.
“Haven’t you lived here for years?” Qhuinn said.
Butch pulled a well-duh double take that did not exactly match the formality of his deep gray Tom Ford suit. “Which is my point. I’ve been through a shit ton of these storms. The city’s been through a shit ton of them. We’ve got the daytime shutters to cover the glass, and like we don’t know from wicked bad wind up here? It’s going to be fine.”
“To be fair, the radar looks like a Christmas card of the Death Star.” Qhuinn cut into his prime rib. “By the way, I heard everyone already voted to leave the island instead of getting stuck here with Lassiter for days and days.”
“And this is my point.” Butch wagged his sterling silver fork. “Why do we all have to stay in tonight just because a couple of flakes fall? Especially if we’re going to get trapped for the day with that angel anyway. That’s like knowing you’re going to come down with the stomach flu and volunteering for a spoiled hamburger the night before.”
“On that, you might have a point.”
Qhuinn glanced down the table. When he couldn’t quite see Lassiter, he leaned forward over his plate full of food so he could get around the lineup of people. About ten seats past Butch, Lassiter was sitting between Bitty and Tohr, his blond-and-black extravaganza of hair falling over a brilliant yellow MrBeast sweatshirt, all of the gold he wore adding a good four tons to his body weight.
The guy was like an entire Zales jewelry store upright and walking around—
Abruptly, Lassiter turned his head, and as their stares met, nothing about his expression was jokey-jokey. His strange-colored eyes were grave and unblinking, his lips a thin line, his whole affect a mask of composure that belonged in Madame Tussaud’s zip