Chapter 6 - The Stare Across the Room
The heavy crystal champagne flute in my father’s hand began to tremble, tiny ripples of golden liquid spilling over the rim and splashing against his knuckles.
Across the polished parquet floor of the country club ballroom, under the blinding glare of a dozen crystal chandeliers, Richard Hale stared at me as if I were a ghost risen from an unholy grave. His face, usually flushed with the bloated arrogance of a man who believed he owned the world, turned a sickly, ashen gray.
Beside him, Madison clutched her phone so hard her knuckles turned white, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a fish stranded on a dock.
“Claire,” my father choked out, his voice cracking into a high, pathetic squeak that echoed faintly through the silent PA system. “What... what are you doing here?”
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I didn't answer right away. I took a slow, deliberate step past the heavy oak doors, my boots clicking softly against the floorboards. The murmur of two hundred wealthy guests dissolved into an uncomfortable, suffocating hush. Nobody dared to sip their drinks; nobody dared to whisper.
“You told me to find somewhere else to go this morning, Dad,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the grand hall without the aid of a microphone. “I just thought I’d drop by and show you what I found.”
