“It’s only a retail store,” I said.

David brought his open hand down hard on the middle of the wooden table.

The glass tumblers jumped two inches to the left and slopped water across the place mats.

“I said you’ll stay off Highway Nine,” David whispered.

“Don’t you ever make me repeat a financial directive.”

He got up, wiped his wet hand on his pants and went into the study, shutting the heavy wooden door behind him.

I stood beside the wet table and pressed my right hand flat on my breastbone.