Prologue
Jude
My father's fork scrapes the porcelain for the sixth time in a minute. He sets it down, rests both hands flat on the tablecloth, and sits back from a plate he's barely touched.
The dining room holds twenty-four chairs. Tonight it holds two.
"You always liked the filet." Frederick hasn't looked up from his plate for the entire course. "I'll let her know you enjoyed it."
"It's good."
"She's been with us since you were—"
"I know how long she's been here."
He reaches for his wine. His fingers close around the stem and the glass shudders before he gets it to his mouth. Burgundy, 1998. One of the better bottles from a cellar that could fund a small country. My father has always kept good wine. The list of things I respect about him starts and ends with the cellar.
I cut another piece of steak, chew, swallow. Take my time. The meal runs three courses and I intend to finish every one.
Across the table, my father sits at the head. I put him there. Arrived two hours before him, sent the staff to the kitchen, set every plate myself. When he walked in, he found his chair pulled back and waiting at the far end, a fresh plate centered in front of it, and his son at the sideboard pouring two drinks. He stood in the doorway for three full seconds before he moved. Didn't ask why I'd set the table. Just tugged his collar straight and took his seat.
"When did you get in?" He tries a different angle. Just a father and son catching up, as if we've ever done that.
"This afternoon."
"You should have called. I'd have had your room ready."
"I don't need a room."
He lifts his glass again, forces another sip. "The property's doing well. I've had the east wing renovated. New floors, plumbing. You'd hardly recognize it."
I would. I grew up counting the steps between rooms, memorizing which stairs creaked, learning which walls were thin enough to hear through. The fact that he doesn't know this tells me everything about thirty years of his parenting.
"That's where your room was. When you were young. Before the schools."
He saysschoolsthe way politicians sayinvestment. A word dressed up to hide what it bought. The schools were lockboxes with tuition, places to store a boy who didn't blink when other children cried and who understood, far too early, that the adults watching him feared turning their backs.
"I remember," I say.
He nods too quickly, leaning in. "We could have it opened up for you. If you wanted to stay a few days. It would be—" He searches for the word. "Nice."
His vocabulary has room for twenty-dollar words and he reaches for one worth a nickel. The polish is rubbing off, and I haven't even started.
The muscle under his left eye twitches. The sweat at his collar has spread to the hollow of his throat. Every forty seconds he glances past my shoulder toward the door to the main hall. His security sits beyond it, two men hired after the third Shade killing made national news. They're good enough to stop most things but they're not good enough to stop me.
"Have you been watching the news?" I ask.
His chewing slows. He puts his knife down, wipes his mouth with the linen napkin. A man buying himself a few seconds.
"Everyone watches the news. I follow the markets, Jude. Same papers everyone reads."
"The markets." I tip my glass and the wine moves slow, dark against the crystal. "You follow the crime pages, Frederick. You've probably saved articles. Have a folder on your desk."
He stares at me. Same expression, but his skin has gone two shades lighter in the space of a breath. His pulse shows at the side of his neck, fast and getting faster.
"Jude—"
"The profile," I say. "They published it eight months ago. Powerful men. Men of authority. Men who built empires on control and entitlement." I set my fork down and fold my hands the way he taught me at this table when I was eight years old. "Sound familiar?"
