My father’s expression softened.
“You are not fragile,” he said.
“Then answer me.”
He walked to the fireplace and rested one hand on the mantel.
“Black Harbor was an investment vehicle,” he said. “Years ago.”
“How many years?”
“Twenty-seven.”
Before I was born.
“What kind of investment vehicle?”
My mother spoke this time. “The kind wealthy families used when they wanted distance between their names and their money.”
I looked between them. “That sounds illegal.”
“Not necessarily,” my father said.
“Dad.”
He exhaled slowly. “Some of the people involved made it illegal.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“What does that have to do with Adrian?”
“We don’t know yet,” Mara said. “But the phrase is not public. Very few people would know to use it.”
My mother’s mouth tightened. “Celeste might.”
I turned to her. “Why would Celeste know anything about something from twenty-seven years ago?”
My mother did not answer.
