“Aren’t you hungry, dear?”

I furrowed my brow and stabbed a carrot with my fork. Her strained politeness would soon be chipped away and all the pleasantries would cease.

“Not really.”

“Well, why not?” I waited for the right words to come and she rolled her eyes with impatience. “Really, Nina. You know I don’t like it when—”

“Has Daddy always been a criminal, or was it something he took up just before he died?” I blurted out, unconcerned with the consequences.

Cynthia’s fork fell to her plate with a shrill clang. She didn’t say anything for a long while. We both held our breath, waiting for the other to speak.

“What…did you say?” she finally whispered.

“You heard me.”

“No. I don’t believe I did. I’m sure you misspoke,” her eyes fluttered as she ended her sentence.

“Port of Providence.” I sat slightly forward in my chair, watching her expression change from insult to shock.

“What? Where did you hear th—,” Cynthia stopped mid-sentence and shook her head. She was flustered, which she rarely experienced.

“I saw the file, Mother. Was it organized crime, or did he just skim off the top at the docks? You know his payroll was full of dirty cops, right?”

“Nina Elizabeth Grey! You will shut your mouth this instant!” I could see the wheels in her head turning, and then she stood up to come to my side of the table, sitting beside me. “You saw files. What files?” I could tell her fury was subdued, she would address my disrespect later.

“The files locked in the hutch in your study, Mother. Stop playing dumb.”

Her eyes tightened; my rudeness narrowly outweighed her curiosity. “I’ve never played dumb in my life, Nina. Why on earth would you—,”

“I want the truth.” I didn’t let my eyes move an inch from her gaze.

“I didn’t bother myself with your father’s business dealings,” she said, turning away.

“But you know what I’m talking about when I say Port of Providence, don’t you?” My accusing eyes bored into her.

Cynthia nodded slightly. “That’s not something you want to admit to having knowledge of, Nina. Forget you saw any of that,” she whispered.

“Forget—,” I was in shock. My father was a…a….criminal? A thief? My face twisted into disgust. “He stole from the distributors he shipped for, he sold things on the black market, he smuggled illegal contraband, and he used cops to cover up his dirty work…police officers, Mother! All of which he gathered evidence against to keep them from turning on him!” My eyes glossed over with anger. “Everything we have is from blood money. Jack had people beaten…he’s had people killed.”

Cynthia wiped a tear and looked down at her lap. This took me off-guard; I had only seen my mother cry a handful of times, all of them following Jack’s accident and death.