The guests arrived in long black cars, their expensive coats dripping onto the marble.

I stood in the kitchen, my hands trembling as I loaded the silver trays.

I could hear the laughter and the clinking of glasses from the dining room.

Suddenly, the kitchen door swung open, and the house landline phone began to ring.

Margaret picked it up, her face turning pale as she listened.

She looked directly at me.

“It is the gatehouse,” Margaret said, her voice tight as she held the receiver. “Senator Whitmore has just passed through.”

I felt a cold knot form in my stomach.

“He was not on the guest list for tonight,” I said.

“He is now,” Margaret replied, smoothing her black apron with a quick, nervous stroke. “Keep your head down, Claire. Carry the soup tureen and do not look anyone in the eye.”

I lifted the heavy silver tureen of lobster bisque.

The steam rose into my face, smelling of sea salt and rich sherry.

I walked through the swinging doors into the grand dining room.

The room was ablaze with light from the massive crystal chandelier overhead.