He reached for Isabelle’s hand. She didn’t move. Her eyes flicked from Claire to the documents, then back to Daniel. The music from the ballroom faltered and stopped, leaving strings of silence vibrating in the air.

“I’m not here to destroy your evening,” Claire said—though looking at Daniel’s face, she realized the evening was already in pieces. “I came to return something.”

She tipped the shovel upright and set it like a flag beside the red car. “For years, Daniel, I buried my plans. I dug trenches for your dreams and laid mine in them like seeds we never watered.” She glanced down at the flowers. “I brought you the shovel back as a gift. Use it to plant something honest. Or, if you must, use it to bury this.”

Someone in the crowd breathed, “Oh,” the way people do when they witness a small miracle.

Isabelle finally spoke. “Daniel,” she said softly, “is any of this untrue?”