Emily stopped.
That pause said everything.
The front door slammed so hard the frames on the wall rattled.
For three full seconds, no one moved.
Then Chloe whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
My mother sank slowly into her chair, as if her legs no longer trusted her. Mark pushed her wineglass closer. I remained standing, one hand resting on the back of my chair, looking at the doorway Emily had just walked through.
“Nathan,” my mother said carefully, “how long have you known?”
“Three days for certain,” I replied. “Three weeks of suspicion.”
I had expected sympathy. Maybe anger on my behalf. Instead, the first thing that filled the room was discomfort—the kind that comes when something private collapses in public over dinner.
Mark cleared his throat. “Daniel Mercer. That’s her boss?”
