I slid the phone into my coat pocket.

Ethan took three quick steps toward me, his leather-soled shoes clicking loudly on the polished white marble.

“Clara, please,” he muttered, his voice low and tight.

He tried to smile, but the muscles around his jaw were white and rigid.

“This is a ridiculous misunderstanding,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Arthur Vance.

“We had some water damage in our guest room closets, Arthur. Clara is just bringing some of my suits to be dry-cleaned.”

Arthur did not smile.

He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and looked at the three heavy matching suitcases parked in the middle of his lobby.

“Dry-cleaning, Ethan?” Arthur asked.

“In your personal leather luggage?”

Lila stood frozen by the reception desk, her knuckles white against the paper folder she held.

A drop of sweat beaded on Ethan’s temple, despite the cool air conditioning of the lobby.

“Clara, let’s go up to my office,” Ethan said, reaching for my elbow.

“We can discuss the closet repairs there.”

I stepped back, avoiding his hand.

The movement was deliberate and obvious to everyone in the room.