He had just snapped his fingers at its chairman like a busboy.
"Emma—" He caught himself. "Claire. What is this?"
Hearing my name out of his mouth felt strange. Not "Em," the way he used to say it back when we were broke but happy. Just *Claire*, spoken like a password that had suddenly stopped working.
I looked at the black card, then back at him. "This is my grandfather."
Derek went pale under his tan. "Your grandfather."
"Yes."
"You never told me."
The accusation in his voice nearly made me laugh — not because it was funny, but because grief sometimes reaches for the strangest reactions when it has nowhere else to go.
"I tried," I said. "Three times, actually. The first time, you were too busy. The second, you forgot. The third, you told me you didn't have the energy for 'small-town family stories.'"
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
