Martha kept her head lowered, stirring her soup over and over with her silver spoon and never taking a bite.

Julian leaned back in his leather chair, tapping his glass with a fingernail as he smiled across the table.

“There’s no need to get worked up, Arthur,” Julian said, in his smooth, overly familiar tone.

“Eleanor is under a great deal of emotional stress, given her condition.

We can sort out the space reallocation after dinner.”

“She’ll sort it out now,” Arthur said, leaning across the table until his shadow fell over my plate.

“Or she can explain to her sister why Julian’s investment firm has to run out of some second-rate motel down on the highway.”