“My mother left me a small account when she passed,” I said. “You always told me it was too small to worry about, so you never asked for the statements.”

He stared at me, his mouth twitching as he searched for something to say.

Before he could speak, the swing door to the kitchen pushed open.

Chef Laura walked out, carrying a tray with two plates of chocolate torte.

She set them down on the sideboard with practiced ease, her face completely expressionless.

“Shall I serve the dessert, Mrs. Vance?” she asked.

“No, thank you, Laura,” I said. “I think we are finished for the evening.”

“Very well,” Laura said. “I will begin packing up the kitchen.”

She turned and went back through the door, the hinges squeaking softly as it closed.

Derek looked at the dessert plates, then back at me.

“You planned this whole night,” he said. “The caterer, the dinner, bringing Richard and Eleanor here.”

“You wanted to show off our perfect life, Derek,” I said. “I simply wanted to make sure you had an audience when it fell apart.”