The room had already gone silent enough to hear the soft creak of leather as he opened the folder fully and removed several documents bound with blue tabs.
My father stood frozen beside the drinks table, one hand still wrapped around his scotch glass so tightly I thought it might crack.
“What is this?” my mother asked sharply.
Harold ignored her.
Instead, he addressed the room the way a conductor addresses an orchestra before the first note.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
“With Eleanor Thompson’s permission,” he said, “I am here to clarify ownership of the 1892 Steinway Model B removed from this home three weeks ago.”
Continue on the next page:
