Sloan had picked up a roasted chicken from the high-end market near the highway, and the scrape of silver forks against porcelain was the only noise in the room.

Mark was cutting his meat into neat squares, his gold wristwatch catching the light from the glass chandelier above us.

“I saw the mail on the hall table this afternoon,” I said, keeping my voice steady and slow.

“I can help you sort through the stack if you’re feeling behind on your business accounts, Mark.”

Mark stopped chewing and set his fork down.

The metal prongs struck the rim of his plate with a sharp clatter that made Sloan freeze with her wine glass halfway to her mouth.