Page 11 of Trail of Betrayal
We order appetizers of tuna tartare, duck confit, a tower of amuse-bouches too pretty to eat. Elise and Isabella fall into a thread about advertising trends; I let them go, listening to the shape of the conversation rather than the words.
Lawrence stays quiet, only chiming in when required, and even then, with the cautious brevity of a man who knows he’s being watched.
I reach under the table and squeeze his knee, hard enough to hurt. He doesn’t look at me, but his hand finds mine and squeezes back, almost desperate.
For a few minutes, it almost feels normal. Just a quartet of high achievers, laughing about the idiocy of their clients and products, the minor humiliations of corporate life. But it’s all prelude. I can sense it in the way Isabella’s eyes keep tracking Lawrence, the way Elise never looks away from me for too long. Even the waitstaff seem to know they’re walking into a minefield with every course.
When the entrées are ordered, I lean back in my seat, glass in hand, and take a long look around the table. Elise is watching me. Lawrence is sweating, just a little, at the hairline. Isabella is studying the seam of her napkin, knuckles white.
I smile, slow and wide, and let the wine bloom in my mouth.
“Here’s to new friends,” I say, raising my glass. “And to honesty.”
The others raise theirs, the moment frozen in a tableau of good intentions and bad secrets.
And then I drink, holding the toast just a second longer than anyone else.
Indeed.
The second course arrives beneath glass domes, each lifted with a practiced flourish. Veal gleams beneath the spotlights, sauce so glossy it mirrors the chandeliers overhead. The table is crowded with reflections of plates, glasses, faces. Even Lawrence’s eyes look polished.
“So, Isabella,” I begin, tracing my fork through the sauce’s shine, “do you ever get out of the city? I know Altus keeps you chained to the desk, but there must be a life outside PowerPoint.”
She laughs, quick and brittle. “Is there? I thought the trick was to have no life at all.”
“I remember you saying that,” I say, turning to Lawrence. “Remember Vermont? That cabin with the moose head? The bed that collapsed at two a.m.?”
He blinks, a beat too long. “Right. Freezing, but worth it.”
I glance at Isabella—the tiniest flick of her eyes upward, like she’s lost her line in a play. Perfect.
Elise leans forward. “Must be nice to unplug. My version of a getaway is two hours without Slack.”
“Balance,” Lawrence says too fast, fingers tightening on his knife.
We drink to balance. The wine tastes metallic. The air thickens. Every clink of cutlery feels like a warning.
I let the silence stretch before speaking again. “You two must work together a lot.”
“Sometimes,” Isabella says. “He’s a night owl.”
I smile. “Oh, I know. There were weeks he’d have slept at his desk if I hadn’t dragged him home.”
Lawrence coughs into his napkin. “I’ve been better about balance lately.”
“Balance,” I echo. “Right.”
He won’t look at me now. Elise studies him over her glass, eyes sharp with knowing.
I turn to Isabella. “By the way, how’s your hand?”
She blinks. “My—?”
“At work, I heard someone groaning. Thought maybe you’d twisted an ankle or something.” I tilt my head, playful. “Did you?”
Her throat works. “Papercut,” she says.
“That must’ve been one hell of a papercut. I heard it from the conference room.”
