By eleven thirty, the heavy shock in the main dining room had settled into scattered, quiet conversations among the relatives.

I went over to the buffet near the silver coffee urn to pour a glass of cold water for Sam.

Natalie Vance stepped up beside the marble counter and set down a small silver tray of creamers.

She folded her arms tightly over her silk blouse and tilted her head, looking straight at me.

“I owe you an apology for assuming you came here to cause pointless drama,” Natalie said, her tone direct, crisp, and fully composed.

“You didn’t know the truth, Natalie,” I said, holding Sam’s glass under the water dispenser.