He cleared his throat softly.
“Miss Cross, are you all right?”
Her head snapped up. She stared at him as if struggling to process his presence.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked, her voice rough.
“Daniel Moore, ma’am. Night cleaning crew. I can come back later.”
“No.” She waved a hand. “Stay. Go. I don’t care. Do whatever invisible people do.”
The word should have stung. It didn’t. He heard the brittleness beneath it.
He began clearing tables farthest from her, working methodically while staying close enough to intervene if she fell. Twenty minutes passed in silence.
“Do you know what today was?” she asked suddenly.
“The annual gala, ma’am.”
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