“Please do.” Michael looked at Richard.

“We need to talk about what comes next.”

Richard didn’t turn.

He was still looking at the screen, at the thin white line of the old break, at the spot where the bone had tried to mend itself and failed.

Twelve miles off in Belle Meade, the heavy pendulum of the mahogany hall clock swung past three.

Victoria sat on the edge of the velvet settee, holding her crystal champagne flute by its long stem and pointing one dark fingernail at the housekeepers.

“Carry those catering trays right back out to the van,” Victoria said, her polite smile completely flat.