It was the first expression that night that truly frightened me.
“Family,” she repeated.
June went still.
Celeste opened her clutch.
“Then perhaps you should ask her about the boy.”
She tossed a photograph onto the table.
A little boy looked up from the faded square.
Dark hair.
A serious mouth.
Gray eyes.
Adrian reached for it.
His hand stopped halfway.
The boy could have been him.
Only the clothes were wrong.
So was the small house behind him.
Adrian picked up the photograph.
On the back, in faded blue ink, someone had written:
Noah. Six years old.
He turned toward June.
“Who is he?”
June’s mouth opened.
No sound came.
Celeste watched her with visible satisfaction.
“Go on,” she said. “Tell him why his father sent money to a woman in Oak Park for years.”
June gripped the arms of her chair.
Adrian looked at Celeste.
“Be quiet.”
“You wanted the truth.”
“I asked June a question.”
The room changed.
Not because he raised his voice.
Because he had stopped addressing Celeste as someone entitled to guide the conversation.
June looked at the photograph.
“My son,” she said.
The words were barely louder than the clock.
Adrian stared.
“Your son?”
She nodded.
Celeste leaned forward.
“And ask who his father was.”
Adrian did not look at her.
He looked only at June.
After a long moment, she lifted her eyes.
“Richard.”
Adrian’s father.
Someone at the table inhaled sharply.
I tightened my grip on the tray.
Celeste looked triumphant.
But Adrian did not turn toward June in disgust.
He simply sat down.
