You want to know what’s funny, Dorothy?” he said, his voice rising. “What’s funny is watching you pretend you have anything relevant to contribute to this conversation.”

And then he tilted the glass.

The dark red wine cascaded over my head, a shocking, cold torrent. It soaked my hair, ran in sticky rivulets down my face, and bled into the cream-colored blouse Frank had once told me made me look elegant.

The silence that followed was absolute, lasting only three seconds before it was shattered by Lisa’s high, sharp peel of laughter. Katie joined in, her teenage giggle a cruel harmony to her mother’s amusement. Even Frank chuckled, a low, rumbling sound, as if he had just performed the most brilliant comedic act.