Grant’s face carried no surprise at what he had done. That frightened her more than the slap.
“You don’t control this house anymore,” he said.
He had spoken quietly. Grant had always understood that a quiet voice made other people lean toward him. Their father had used silence to make a room attentive. Grant used it to make a room afraid.
Evelyn looked past him.
Aunt Celia’s fingers had tightened around the strap of her handbag. Thomas, their cousin, stared at the floor near Grant’s shoes. Claire—Grant’s twenty-six-year-old daughter—had gone pale beside the glass doors. None of them spoke.
Grant straightened and adjusted his steel watch.
The gesture was so ordinary that Evelyn nearly laughed. Her brother had struck her, and now he was worried his cuff had shifted.
Vivian broke the silence.
“Sign the transfer, Evelyn.”
Her tone was soft and professionally regretful, the same tone she had used for years while explaining losses that were always temporary, exposures that were always manageable, and decisions that had somehow already been made before anyone else entered the room.