“No,” you said. “I think we should talk right here.”
Richard’s expression hardened. “You don’t understand what’s happening.”
“You’re right,” you said. “I don’t. I don’t understand why your father was alone on a freezing sidewalk with no ID except a cardholder. I don’t understand why nobody here seems surprised he was missing. And I really don’t understand why Andrew told me to leave him there once the ambulance was coming.”
Andrew went pale. “That is not what I said.”
“It’s close enough.”
Celeste’s voice dropped. “Young lady, you are a guest in this house.”
You looked at her beautiful table, her candles, her crystal, her untouched plates. Then you looked up at the portrait again. “And your family patriarch is in a hospital bed because a stranger stopped when everyone else kept driving.”
No one spoke.
Your phone vibrated in your purse. The sound felt impossibly loud. You pulled it out, saw the hospital number, and answered before Andrew could stop you.
“Ms. Bennett?” a nurse asked. “This is St. Catherine’s. The patient you came in with is conscious. He’s asking for the woman who stayed with him.”
You held Andrew’s gaze as your fingers tightened around the phone.
“I’ll be there,” you said.
Andrew grabbed your wrist as soon as you ended the call. “Claire, don’t make this worse.”
You looked down at his hand.
“Let go.”
For one second, he didn’t. That second told you more about your future than three years of dinners, vacations, apologies, and promises had ever told you. When he finally released you, your skin still carried the pressure of his fingers.
Celeste stepped between you and the door. “You have no idea what kind of man Harrison Whitmore is.”
“No,” you said. “But I know what kind of people leave him missing and pour wine.”
Richard’s face turned red. “Careful.”
You reached for the engagement ring on your finger. It had once seemed elegant, restrained, perfect for you. Now it felt like a small silver lock.
Andrew whispered, “Claire.”
