Patrice Beckett called from her sitting room, her voice dry from years of bitterness. It rubbed against Jake’s flesh like sandpaper, a near-physical sensation.He stood just inside the front door, in the circular entryway beneath the crystal teardrop chandelier. Before him was the sweeping staircase his mother had sued a wood craftsman over, demanding each post be re-lathed, each step be shortened, each board be reset until the man had quit the job and his occupation and retired to a small fishing town on Puget Sound, beaten and old.The wood — a polished, glossy, deep reddish-brown mahogany that looked as rich as caramelized frosting — shone softly in the spreading light. Everything smelled sweet, like cinnamon and apple, and Jake’s gaze flicked to the crystal bowl of potpourri on the hall sideboard. Everything oozed sweetness for the Becketts and looked even more so. Patrice made certain of it.“J.J …?”He almost corrected her. Everyone else these days who made that mistake got a tongue lashing, but telling Patrice Beckett to call him Jake instead of J.J.
