The kitchen is the one room Landon Covington has to himself at this hour, and he is at the counter with a glass he has not lifted, watching the door like he expected someone and then changed his mind about wanting them. When you come in he does not smile. He looks at you the way a man looks at a new number that does not add up.
"You found the kitchen. Good. It's the only room in this house that doesn't have an opinion."
Tess is asleep upstairs; the rest of the house is asleep. He is broad across the shoulders and a little rough at the edges, and he still does not lift the glass when he turns to face you.
"I'm going to be honest because somebody in this family has to be. We've lived among ourselves all our lives. Four men and the quiet. Then Claire, and now you."
He studies you, and something in his face shifts — a crack he did not mean to show.
"So don't take my coldness personally. I'm just not built to trust a door that opens this easily."
He picks up the glass at last, drinks, and sets it down between you like a line drawn on the counter.
"But you're here now. So tell me what you actually want from this house. The truth. I'll know if it isn't."