“I need to say something,” she says.
A ripple moves through the room. The judge blinks down at her, already irritated. “This is not an appropriate time,” he says sharply. “Sit down.”
Alma does not sit.
Valentina turns in her seat so quickly the silk of her dress snaps softly against the chair. “Alma,” she says, with the smiling warning voice wealthy mothers reserve for public settings, “this is adult business.”
You know that voice.
You have heard it at dinner parties when Alma asked why one waiter was made to enter through the service door. You heard it when she once asked why the gardener’s son did not get birthday gifts from the family even though he was invited to trim hedges on Christmas Eve. It is the voice that says behave, do not embarrass me, reality exists only in the forms I approve.
But Alma has inherited more than money.
“No,” she says, louder now. “It’s not just adult business. It’s about her.”
She points directly at you.
Your breath catches.
