He stretched his big hand toward the brass knob.

I stepped squarely in front of him and pressed my palm flat on the wood, blocking the lock.

I rubbed my left thumb across my right knuckles.

“Step aside, Ona,” Arthur said.

“This behavior is irrational, unstable, entirely unacceptable.”

“You’re not leaving this room,” I said.

“Not until I’ve finished talking, I suppose.”

I reached into the side pocket of my black funeral dress.