It was a small, ordinary thing to do.

It was also, I would realize a heartbeat later, exactly what they had been waiting for.

I did not see Rosalie watching me from the head table.

I did not see the quick, poisonous word she passed to Evelyn.

And I did not see the senior waiter accelerating toward my blind side with a heavy silver tray balanced on his palm, loaded with a dozen brimming glasses of red wine.

It happened with the choreographed precision of a thing that had been arranged.