Thirty of Oakridge’s high-society neighbors sat frozen in their seats, steak knives in midair.

Nobody chewed.

Nobody took a drink.

“Who actually holds the deed to this house, Arthur?” Pembroke asked.

His slow baritone was the only steady sound left in the room.

Vance looked at me, then at Victoria.

He didn’t answer Pembroke out loud.

He simply left his leather binder open on the table and slid his chair back two inches from the mahogany.