Damon stared into his box, jaw unhinging, eyes darting to me. He looked like a man who’d just stepped on a landmine and heard the click.

“Felicity…” he whispered, the word barely escaping his throat.

The room was dead silent. The pastel balloons bumped cheerfully against the ceiling, a stark contrast to the execution about to commence.

“What is that?” Owen asked. He stepped closer to Claire, looking down at the glossy photograph on the floorboards.

Claire tried to kick the photo under the sofa, but her heel slipped. Damon’s fingers twitched at his sides. He looked at the crowd, then at me, sliding instantly into damage control.

“Claire’s been helping with the shower,” Damon said, his voice artificially loud, trying to project authority. “She’s been in and out of the house for weeks helping set this up.