Chapter 18: The Folder

I did not go alone.

Eleanor had written, bring whoever believes you, and I took her at her word.

My father came in his one suit, with a fresh haircut and his jaw set.

Pearl wore a green dress she had borrowed from a patient's daughter and carried her phone in a clutch.

Soren wore a rented tux that was an inch short at the wrists.

He gave me his arm at the foot of the Beacon Hill steps, and I took it.

"If the dean says anything," he said, "let me answer."

"If the dean says anything, I'll answer first."

"Fair."

The ballroom was on the second floor, with chandeliers and a string quartet and two hundred people holding champagne.

A banner over the stage read The Whitstable Memorial Foundation.

A photograph stood on an easel beside it, a sandy-haired man smiling at someone behind the camera.

I felt a small hard pang for him, and set it aside.

Heads turned as we came in.

I heard my name pass along the room in a low rush.

Winslow was standing near the stage in black tie.

He looked at me, and then at Soren, and his face did the still thing it did when he was losing.

Rosalind came across the floor with both hands out.

She wore the pearls and a silver dress, and her smile arrived a full second before she did.

"Dorinda, darling. You came."

"I did."

"And with such a crowd." She kissed the air by my cheek. "How loyal."

Her gaze moved to Soren and rested on him for a moment, searching.

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