August Vale was here.
At seventy-eight, he moved slowly yet still commanded attention.
He entered carrying a silver-handled cane, accompanied by longtime attorney Margaret Ellis.
Camden’s expression transformed.
“August.”
He hurried offstage.
His warmth might have fooled anyone unfamiliar with his manufactured affection.
“We were beginning to worry you wouldn’t make it.”
August disregarded his hand.
He was looking at me.
“Elena?”
I froze.
He glanced between me and the approaching guard.
Then faced Camden.
“What,” August asked, “is happening?”
Camden smiled modestly.
“A difficult personnel matter. Unfortunately, Elena’s position has been terminated.”
August stared at him.
“Terminated?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
Several guests exchanged looks.
Camden nearly laughed.
“By me.”
August’s gaze hardened into stillness.
I’d witnessed that expression once.
During my mother’s funeral.
He’d stood umbrella-less in the rain, studying her coffin as though demanding answers from grief.
He regarded Camden identically.
