He crossed to the table and placed the two cups of coffee down, pushing one toward her. “No milk. It went bad,” he explained, nodding to the dark hue. “Suppose it was on the verge of expiring even before…”

Even before they died.

“That’s how I like it. Thanks.” She took the closest seat, pulling her mug nearer, while Kant lowered himself into the white-painted chair across from her.

He exhaled as he stretched his legs out. One hand closed over the mug’s rim, though he made no move to lift it. He stared down at the drink for a moment, watching the tiny eddies, then said, “You’ll have questions.”

“Yeah.” Even now, Kant’s face was unreadable. The speckled gray brows were heavy, the beard disguising the edges of his mouth. He met her eyes, but it felt uneven, as though her own thoughts were laid bare before him while she got nothing in return. She shifted, uncomfortable. “You’ve known my parents for a while, I guess?”

“Near thirty years. They hired me to be a manager for most of the practical half of the business. Live in the employee accommodations.” He tilted his head toward the window, and Margot knew he was indicating the clustered buildings they’d passed on the drive up the hill.

“Oh.” She’d guessed he must have been close to her parents in some way to be put in charge of their funeral arrangements, but she hadn’t realized they worked together. It made sense, though. He probably knew them—their routines, their preferences, their plans—better even than a friend would have.

She tried to remember what she’d seen of the buildings on the climb up the hill. The view had been obscured by the rain and mist and scrubby trees, but she was certain there had been more than a couple of rooflines.

Margot ran her tongue across her teeth. “Do other people live here too?”

“Andrew does bookkeeping and sales work.” His short fingernails picked at the edge of his mug. “Nora and Ray run the public store, but they live in town and drive in each day. Otherwise, we have eight full-time workers staying on property, plus seasonal employees. They bottle and ferment the wine, fill the casks, keep on top of the daily work. And…” His gray eyes flicked up to watch Margot’s reaction. “They’re wondering if they still have jobs.”

A faint tinny noise rang at the far back of her ears. She didn’t know where to look, and her eyes settled on the kitchen table, where the shadow from her mug fell. The wood’s grain was still visible even under the sloppily thick paint: weaving lines, uneven around the edges. She let her gaze track over them, following the rivers and eddies they formed, as her mind raced.