I began to laugh.
It wasn’t a nervous titter or a self-conscious chuckle. It was genuine, boisterous laughter—the kind that is loud, uncontrollable, and deeply unsettling to everyone else because it is so entirely disconnected from the gravity of the moment.
Sienna’s triumphant expression began to crumble.
“What is so funny?” she barked.
I wiped a stray tear from my eye, catching my breath just enough to speak.
“Because,” I replied, “that is exactly what I was hoping you would do.”
The laughter hadn’t lightened the mood; it had made the room feel significantly colder. There is something profoundly disturbing about confidence when an audience is expecting shame.
Sienna gripped the leather of the wallet tighter. “What are you talking about?”
I leaned back in my chair, looking at each person around the table in turn.
“Before we sat down for dinner,” I said, my tone conversational, “I went into the hallway bathroom. When I returned, I noticed my tote bag had been moved and was open.”
