The sound was smaller than Evelyn expected. Not the theatrical crack that belonged in bad movies, but a flat, private impact, almost swallowed by the cream limestone walls. Her head turned. The black wheelchair stayed planted on the pale oak floor, its brakes locked, the white brace on her left leg resting heavily on the support.
For half a second, nobody moved.
Grant remained bent toward her, one broad hand hanging beside his tailored gray trousers. His black shirt was open at the collar, exposing the flushed skin at his throat. Behind him, Vivian Cole held a burgundy leather folder against her ivory pantsuit with both hands. Three relatives stood between the floating staircase and the smoked-glass entry doors, dressed as if they had come to witness the signing of something respectable.
Evelyn tasted the small cut in her lower lip open again.