“I made a mistake.”
“No,” she said. “You made a pattern. Tonight was just the first time everyone saw it.”
He stared at her like she had become someone else.
Maybe she had.
Or maybe she was finally becoming herself.
The police arrived through a side entrance twelve minutes later. No sirens, no spectacle. Just two officers in dark uniforms, a woman and a man, speaking quietly with security and Vincent. The guests remained in stunned clusters, whispering into crystal glasses they had forgotten to drink from.
Darnell tried to insist on speaking to “his attorney” before answering questions. Beverly demanded to sit down because her blood pressure was “dangerously high.” Candace said she had a migraine and needed to leave.
No one left.
Security footage was reviewed in a private service room off the ballroom. Lenora gave her statement sitting in a leather chair beneath a framed black-and-white photograph of the estate gardens from the 1960s. Her shoulder throbbed. Someone brought her ice wrapped in a white towel. Mr. Wilson stood outside the door, refusing to leave his post.
