For one moment, nobody moved.
My nine-year-old son, Liam, had been halfway through a joke about chocolate cake. Now, he stared down at his plate, his fingers wrapped around his fork.
Beside me, my husband, Ben, shoved his chair back.
« Move him somewhere else. »
I caught his wrist, not because I planned to let the woman walk away, but because I wanted everyone to hear what happened next.
***
Three hours earlier, Liam had been racing us to the elevator.
Well, he called it racing.
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