“You’ll have one.”
By the time I returned to the booth, June had whipped cream on her nose and Sadie had color in her cheeks again.
For twenty minutes, I let them be children.
At the estate, Warren was still playing king.
I learned that later from three different guests, two videos sent anonymously, and one cousin who suddenly remembered she had always admired me.
Apparently, after I left, Warren laughed too loudly and told everyone I was “sensitive.”
Beverly made a small performance of sighing near the family table.
“Some women never learn how to fit into a family,” she announced, loud enough for the nearest guests to hear. “A wife should understand her place.”
Warren raised his glass again.
“To family,” he said.
The guests echoed him.
“To family.”
Then the first server approached him with a folded envelope.
Warren waved him away. “Not now.”
The server remained. “Sir, the estate manager asked me to give this to you immediately.”
Warren snatched it, annoyed. Beverly leaned close.
“What is it?”
He opened the envelope.
According to the video, his smile lasted seven seconds.
Then it fell apart.
The letter was simple.
Aster Hall was not owned by Warren Caldwell.
