The back room held the kind of hush that settles in when no one wants to be the first to speak.
Arianne's hands were wrapped around her glass of lemonade, the condensation dripping down her fingers and onto the scarred wood of the table. She hadn't moved since Nate spoke. The words were landing in the room like stones dropped into calm water, their ripples spreading outward. Beside her, Gilbert was frozen with his whiskey halfway to his mouth, his dark eyes fixed on Nate's face. Julian had stopped swirling his bourbon, the glass resting forgotten on the table, the amber liquid catching the harsh overhead light.
"Who?" Arianne's voice was steady. Controlled. The voice she used in boardrooms when someone presented her with information she hadn't anticipated and she was already mapping her response.
