The Wistful Dinner
Elias Thorne, you are blocking the service. The voice of Mrs. Gable, the catering coordinator, cut through the low hum of the chandeliers, sharp and dry as a staple pulled from a manila folder. I stepped back from the heavy oak table where the annual municipal gala was unfolding, my eyes dropping immediately to the surface, not to the food. There, beneath the glare of the crystal centerpiece,...
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