“Because you didn’t have sufficient evidence and you reeked of hysteria. Both made your case weak.”

Hunter said nothing, watching his sibling under a deep-set frown.

“Did you know that the word hysteria derives from the Latin word for uterus?” Cillian asked conversationally, dissecting his steak meticulously into pieces the exact same size, a la American Psycho. “In ancient Greece, it was believed that a wandering and discontented uterus was to blame for that dreaded female ailment of excessive emotion.” He put his fork down and stared at what he’d carved on his plate.

I watched him behind the diamond-studded rim of my wine glass.

Cillian’s hawk-like eyes and panther gestures gave me violent, uncomfortable shivers. He made me feel uneasy, unequipped—like the dirt beneath his shiny loafers, and he hadn’t even tried all that hard to provoke these emotions in me. I didn’t envy the people he actively hated.

“Do you speak Latin, Cillian?” I asked, taking a bite of my steak.

Aisling stopped talking, shooting me a do-you-want-to-die? horrified expression. The rest of the table fell silent, the tension hovering above our heads like a thick, dark cloud.

“A fair amount. Any particular reason you’d care?” He popped a piece of steak into his mouth.

He’d requested his steak so raw, so bloody, the juicy meat made the corners of his perfect lips glisten.

“I was wondering if the word jerk derives from the Latin word jealousy. Thought you could shed some light regarding that.” I smiled sweetly, cocking my head to look at him.

Jane sprayed her red wine across the table, making a choking sound that prompted Gerald to pat her back. Dad, Sam, and Hunter exchanged amused looks, chuckling under their breaths. Mom’s eyes glittered with pride. Sticking it to the big man ran in our family.

Cillian tucked his chin down, regarding me for the first time with faint interest, like my existence was a brand new thing he needed to consider.

“Do you think you’re clever, Miss Brennan?”

“Not a genius by any means, but I get by with my perfectly adequate, average IQ.” Another mocking smile touched my lips. “I’d ask you the same question, but I already know the answer. You think you’re the smartest person in the room.”

Cillian sat back and watched me, enjoying a private joke at my expense. “Prove me wrong.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” I made a show of taking my phone out of my purse. I knew it was the equivalent of taking a dump on the table as far as etiquette went, but I couldn’t help myself. I browsed through my images until I found the one I was looking for and passed my phone to Cillian across the table.

“Hunter’s IQ test from when he moved to Todos Santos,” I explained. “I found it in one of the packed boxes in our apartment. Actually, I can see all the Fitzpatrick siblings’ scores. Hunter must’ve packed them by accident. Your baby brother sits at 147 points, which marks him as a literal genius. Yours is merely 139. Still above average, but no 147. Now tell me, Cillian, is your math as good as your Latin?” I blinked innocently.

“Mo órga.” Gerald cleared his throat behind his napkin, signaling Cillian to kill this conversation.

But I couldn’t stop myself. I was on a roll.

Cillian sat back, refusing to show signs of discomfort.

“Measuring one’s competence by their IQ level is like measuring a horse by its coat.”

“Or a woman by her bra size, to put it in a form ceann beag could relate to,” Gerald jested, his potbelly wobbling with laughter.

Jane winced at her husband, slapping the tips of his fingers across the table. She muttered an apology to my parents. Dad and Mom exchanged looks, relieved. Compared to the Fitzpatricks, we were actually a normal family.

Sam, however, watched the entire thing, his eyes ping-ponging back and forth, with a smile behind his pint of Guinness. I had no idea where he’d gotten it. No one else was having Guinness. But this was my brother after all, the most resourceful man in Massachusetts.

Hunter sipped his water. I noticed he hadn’t touched his wine. Everybody in the room was probably under the assumption he’d devour his little treat. It was a long middle finger to what was expected of him. A tinge of pride prickled my chest.

“Thank you for explaining it to me in simple English, Athair. For a minute there I was, hysterically at a loss,” Hunter said.

“Do not speak out of turn,” Gerald warned, stabbing into his steak like it was his enemy.

“I wasn’t planning on speaking at all. Mom was hella adamant I be here, though.” Hunter fingered his chin, throwing the ball back to his father’s court.

“She has her vices. You are one of them.” Gerald turned his attention back to his steak.

“And you’re not, which is why I’m here, taunting the hell out of you with my presence alone,” Hunter deadpanned.

Aisling sucked in a breath, and Jane paled and coughed out her drink—her MO, apparently.

Gerald’s chair scraped back with a screeching sound. He rose to his feet, slapping the table with a roar. “Enough! It’s bad enough that you have brought shame on this family—”

“Don’t talk to him like that.” It was Jane’s turn to dart up to her feet. She looked even more frail and bony next to her husband.