“It’s all true.” The trio stopped mid-song.

A waiter backed quietly out and drew the doors shut behind him.

For a moment nobody in that room moved, and I looked at them the way you look at a photograph you’re never going to see the same way again.

The two golf friends had gone rigid, staring at their plates, clearly wishing themselves anywhere else.

The Denver cousins were whispering.

Roxanne had stopped performing outrage and started, visibly, to calculate.