Palmer produced a crumpled envelope. It sat on his palm like it weighed more than paper.

“That’s it?” Amanda let the syllables ring. “The old lady gets an envelope? Richard, you sly dog.” Laughter chimed—hers first, then the satellites that orbited her, then a couple of Richard’s newer associates, even Julian, whose hand had not moved from its place on her knee.

Palmer approached. “Mrs. Thompson, I—”

“It’s fine,” I said in the careful politeness women learn to use when cruelty wears etiquette. I opened it because refusal would have been a second spectacle.

A single airline ticket slid into my hand. First class to Lyon, France. Connecting train to a village I’d never heard of—Saint‑Michel‑de‑Maurienne. Departure: tomorrow morning.