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Not to win.

Not to confess.

Not to demand answers I already know he won’t give unless giving them serves him.

Ella should be on the road by now.

Cain’s gaze drops briefly to my shirt. The dirt on my cuffs. The muck beneath my fingernails. He lingers exactly long enough to tell me he sees everything and not long enough to grant me the dignity of denial.

“Rough night?” he asks.

“Family nights usually are.”

His mouth curves. “True.”

I move to the table and stop near the chessboard. White has just taken a black knight. Black’s queen sits back, untouched, waiting with too much open space around her.

I don’t like the position.

I don’t like anything about this room.

Cain follows my gaze. “Care to play?”

“No.”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

“I’m afraid I’ll get bored.”

This time, he smiles. Good. He took the bait. That’s all I need for now.

“I came about Father,” I say.

“Oh?”

“He lied to me.”

Cain lifts one brow. “You’ll need to narrow that down.”

“The foundation,” I say.

“What about it?”

“You know exactly what about it.”

I don’t have any particular lie in mind, and if Cain pushes, I’ll have to make something up.

“And you’re just now having a moral crisis, Nate?” Cain laughs. “Tell me you’re not trying to distract me while you’re trying to distract me.”

Nice. He’s not questioning me.

“It isn’t a moral crisis,” I say.

“No?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”