Khloe opened the black folder slowly.
Beatrice Romano stopped breathing for half a second.
It was small, almost imperceptible, but Khloe had spent years remembering that woman’s face from photographs.
She knew the difference between anger and fear.
This was fear.
Silas still had one hand around his mother’s wrist.
“Let her go,” Khloe said.
His eyes moved to her.
“Khloe, tell me what this is.”
“Let her go first.”
Silas released Beatrice.
She immediately stepped backward, smoothing the sleeve of her coat as if restoring her dignity could restore her control.
“You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” she said.
Khloe almost laughed.
Her apron was soaked in red wine.
Broken glass glittered around her shoes.
Thirty people had watched Beatrice order her onto her knees.
But somehow, Beatrice still believed the humiliation belonged to Khloe.
Nathaniel stood near the bar, visibly uncertain whether he should call security, clear the room, or pretend nothing had happened.
Evelyn had stopped pretending altogether.
She was watching Beatrice.
Everyone was.
Khloe removed the first item from the folder.
It was a photograph.
She placed it facedown on the table so none of the nearby diners could see its details.
Silas frowned.
“What does Arthur Harding have to do with my family?”
Beatrice’s answer came immediately.
“Nothing.”
Khloe looked at her.
“That’s strange.”
Beatrice’s jaw tightened.
“Because he worked for your family for eleven years.”
Silas turned toward his mother.
She said nothing.
Khloe continued.
“Arthur Harding was an accountant.
Not the kind who filed taxes once a year.
Your father trusted him with the books behind the books.
Shipping companies.
Property holdings.
Restaurant accounts.
Cash movements nobody wanted explained in public.”
Silas’s expression grew colder with each sentence.
“My father had dozens of accountants.”
“He trusted one with his private ledger.”
Khloe tapped the photograph.
“Mine.”
The word hung there.
Silas stared at her.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
For six months he had asked Khloe about classes, favorite books, bad customers, and whether she ever slept enough.
He had never asked why she never spoke about her family.
Now he understood why.
Beatrice regained her voice.
