“Who submitted it?”

“It traces back to a consultant connected to the same law office. We can’t say more until we collect the documents formally.”

I looked through the doorway at Sabina, who was offering cereal to her stuffed rabbit.

Beatrix hadn’t simply been arranging a party. She’d been circling my company. The dinner, Thatcher’s uncle, the investors, the pressure to keep me busy in the kitchen, the insistence that I behave, the anger when I refused to look obedient in front of their guests — it all formed a different picture now.

This had never been about salmon. It had been about control.

Beatrix wanted me exhausted, diminished, and emotional. She wanted a version of me who might sign whatever was placed in front of her, or react badly enough to be used against me.