Brandon stood up so fast his chair rolled back into the wall.

“You don’t get to call me a thief at my mother’s table,” he said.

He reached across the table and grabbed my shoulder.

I turned his wrist until his hand lay flat on the mahogany, not hard, just locked.

“Don’t touch me again, Brandon.

Put your hands back on the table.”

He pulled once.

His arm didn’t move.