On the far side of the room, a man in a white shirt with a red signet ring tapped the laminate table.

Derek Vance, I guessed, because everyone around him leaned in when he talked.

His laugh was too big for a room that size.

“You’re standing in the doorway,” he said, not to me exactly, but loudly enough.

I stepped aside.

A chair scraped across the floor.

“Miss,” a quiet voice said.

“The maple tree has a nice view.