You can’t take investor calls from a kitchen table.” Cato didn’t look at me.

He rarely did; I think I made him vaguely uncomfortable, the widow, the wrong note at the party, and his solution was to behave as though I were a piece of the furniture he was about to inherit.

He wandered to the window and looked out at the frost like a man appraising a view he’d soon own.

Then Delphina’s eyes went, the way they always eventually went, to my stomach — to the swell of it under Niko’s gray shirt — and something crossed her face that I had spent my whole life pretending not to see.

Not concern.

The opposite of concern.