She looked at the spilled wine, the shattered glass on the floor, and the tense posture of everyone in the room.

“I am sorry,” she whispered.

“Should I…”

“Please leave the tray on the counter, Laura,” I said, my voice calm.

“And you can go home for the evening.”

“Thank you, Monica,” she said.

She quickly retreated, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft click.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Derek looked at the kitchen door, then at his father, then at me.

“You think you’ve won,” he said again, but this time there was no anger in his voice.

Only a cold, empty promise.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his car keys.

“We are not finished,” he said.

He turned and walked toward the hallway, his boots clicking loudly on the wood.

“Derek, wait,” Eleanor called out, taking a step after him.

“Let him go, Eleanor,” Arthur said, holding her arm.

“He has to face what he has done.”

From the hallway, the heavy front door opened, letting in a gust of freezing winter air.