The night air was freezing, biting at my cheeks.

My heels clicked against the damp gravel as we walked toward the front entrance.

Through the tall glass windows, I could see directly into the dining room.

It was staged for a celebration.

A silver bucket held a bottle of wine on ice.

Vivian, Evan’s mother, was sitting at the long mahogany table, her fingers wrapped around a crystal glass.

Sloane was pacing near the stone fireplace.

Evan stood by the window, his phone still gripped tightly in his right hand.

Lydia pushed the front door open.

It wasn’t locked.

The heavy oak door swung inward with a soft creak.

We walked into the heated foyer, our wet shoes leaving dark prints on the white marble floor.

“Claire,” Vivian said, standing up immediately.

Her double strand of pearls caught the light of the low-hanging chandelier.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

“This is private property.”

“Not for long, Vivian,” Lydia said, stepping forward.

She placed her leather briefcase on the edge of the dining table.

Evan didn’t look at his mother.

His eyes were fixed entirely on me.