Donor Dinner Teeth

Vivian insists the exhumation filing is "a weather event, not a moral one," which is her favorite way to reclassify human damage as logistics. She hosts an emergency donor dinner that night anyway, because donors panic less when seated near polished silver and a retired judge who speaks in exact paragraphs. I wear black because anything brighter would feel like volunteering for satire.

The house is full of old money and new fear. Conversations cut off when I enter, then restart two degrees louder in the next room. I move from table to table with the campaign-wife poise muscle memory has built into my spine. If Greybridge wants an image of stability, I can still make one. The problem is that stability now feels like a crime technique.

Roman Vale intercepts me near the wine alcove. Up close he always smells faintly of cedar and cold engine oil. "Rough week," he says, as if commenting on rain.

"You came to console me?"

"I came to suggest you stop meeting reporters at county-line bars."

He says it with his eyes on the cabernet bottles. No heat. No performance. Just fact. My pulse kicks once. "You following me now?"

"Following is an ugly word. I'd say noticing patterns." He lifts a shoulder. "The town still wants to feel sorry for you. Don't make them feel stupid for trying."

There it is, the real Greybridge threat. Not violence. Humiliation. I look past Roman and find Vivian across the room, laughing softly with two state donors while she watches us through the stem of her glass. Owen is beside her, nodding at the right beats, already back inside the machine.

"Did you put the ring on Nina Baird's hand?" I ask.

Roman's expression does not move, but the tendons along his jaw stand out. "You should not say names you are not prepared to defend."

"Then answer me."

He leans in just enough that anyone watching would think he is telling me a joke. "By dawn tomorrow, people with shovels will touch whatever is under that marble. Ask yourself whether you want Poppy's life attached to what they find."

Before I can answer, he steps back, smiling for anyone looking our way. In the next room, somebody taps a spoon against glass to call everyone to the table. I slide my phone from my purse and find a new unknown text waiting.

He is warning you about the wrong thing. Check the left hand when they open the box.