“Your boy is a criminal, Eleanor,” Arthur said, his voice sounding older than I had ever heard it.

He finally turned away from the glass, his face pale in the dim light of the chandelier.

“He has stolen from our partners, and he has laid hands on his wife.”

In the doorway of the dining room, Chef Laura stood quietly, her hands folded over her white apron.

She looked at me, a silent question in her eyes.

“Is there anything else you need me to do, Monica?” she asked softly.

“No, Laura,” I said, my throat feeling dry. “Thank you. You can pack up.”

“I will clean the kitchen before I go,” she said, nodding once, then disappeared back into the hallway.

The remaining guests, Mr. and Mrs. Vance, stood up from their seats at the far end of the table.

They had remained silent during the confrontation, their plates of half-eaten venison sitting between them.

Mr. Vance adjusted his tie, his expression hardened into one of profound disgust.

“We will be taking our leave, Arthur,” Mr. Vance said, avoiding my eyes entirely.