I walked into the living room, where the smell of woodsmoke and expensive scotch filled the air. Brendan was standing near the marble fireplace, already holding a half-empty glass. He adjusted his heavy gold wristwatch twice before I even reached the sofa, his eyes scanning my face with a familiar, impatient look.
“You are late,” he said, his boisterous voice filling the room and bouncing off the high plaster walls.
“The traffic on the tollway was backed up to Hinsdale,” I said, sitting on the edge of the wingback chair. “And the rain made visibility difficult.”
