“We only tolerate you here because of the Morrison name,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that barely carried across the high ceiling.
“The Morrison name belonged to my father before it belonged to this house, Diane,” I said.
“Your father is gone, and his shares are locked in a dead trust,” she said, turning to face me with a cold smile. “The annual shareholder meeting is on October twenty-fourth, and we are moving forward. With or without your cooperation.”
“The trust is not dead,” I said.
“It is dormant, which is practically the same thing,” she said, dismissively waving her hand. “Now, go on into the living room. Brendan has been waiting for you, and he is not in a patient mood.”
I did not answer her. I set my wet shoes neatly on the tray by the door and stepped onto the wool of the Persian rug, feeling the familiar, heavy weave beneath my stockinged feet. The question of how much longer I could protect my unborn daughter from this family hung between us, unanswered.
