Her smile tightened. Trevor shot me a warning look that said, Please don’t start.

Brandon and Khloe rushed past us into the house, their excitement temporarily overriding the tension.

George Carmichael emerged from his study, glass of scotch already in hand despite the early hour. He was a tall man with silver hair and the same cold eyes as his wife.

“Kids, settle down,” he barked. “This isn’t a playground.”

Khloe, my sweet four-year-old with her blonde curls and gap-toothed smile, immediately froze. Brandon grabbed her hand protectively. At seven, he’d already learned to be vigilant around his grandparents.