“So we learned . . . nothing whatsoever,” I say.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Raylan nods.

“Great.” Nero pushes himself up from the chair. “Sounds like an afternoon well spent.”

“I’m sure you had way more important things to do,” Dante snorts, shaking his head at his little brother.

“Oh, I’m not complaining.” Nero shoots a glance in my direction. “Riona and I were having a real nice chat.”

Dante raises his eyebrows at me, clearly having as much trouble imagining what that would look like as I would have trying to explain it to him.

Dante and Nero head out, and Raylan takes his customary chair in the corner. But he’s not in his usual good mood. Actually, he looks pretty wound up about something.

“What?” I say to him. “Are you mad because you didn’t find what you were looking for?”

“No,” Raylan says shortly.

“What, then?”

“Nothing.”

I roll my eyes. I don’t want to have to guess what he’s annoyed about.

After a few minutes of silence, Raylan says, “What did Nero mean?”

“Oh. We were just talking about him and Camille.”

“Is that all?” Raylan says suspiciously.

“Yes . . . ” I reply.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Raylan was jealous of Nero. He’s acting very odd.

“Are you going to tell me what happened to your hand?” I ask him.

“No,” Raylan says.

I make an irritated sound and go back to my work.

When it’s finally time to leave, Raylan seems to have relaxed a little. He grabs my coat and holds it so I can slip my arms into the sleeves. Then he opens the door for me.

Usually I don’t like when men go over the top with chivalrous gestures, but Raylan does it naturally, not making a fuss about it. Everything he does with his hands is smooth and easy: cooking, driving, getting the door. He probably is great at chopping wood just like he said.

I can see Oran’s light still burning in his office, so I make a detour down the hall to say goodnight to him.

He’s bent over a stack of papers, looking intent and exhausted.

“ ‘Night, Uncle Oran,” I say. “I’m headed out.”

“Goodnight,” he says distractedly.

Uncle Oran is as well-dressed as ever, but there’s more gray than black in his hair now, and he’s got bags under his eyes. I sometimes forget he’s almost ten years older than my father.

“Your uncle never got married or had kids?” Raylan asks me as we get into the elevator.

“No.” I shake my head. “He’s had girlfriends—one for six or seven years. She was nice. Her name was Lorelei. She worked at a gallery in River West—it was for self-taught artists. ‘Outsider Art’ they called it. But they split up. I don’t know why.”

“You’re close to him,” Raylan says. It’s not a question.

“Yeah.” I nod. “He got me interested in law. Cal was always the heir to the empire, and Nessa was the baby. You know she’s such a sweetheart, everybody loves her. So I guess . . . there wasn’t anything special about me. Uncle Oran made me feel special.”