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“Margaret used to do exactly that,” he says, swirling the wine in his glass. “People always assumed she remembered everything because she had an extraordinary memory.” He smiles to himself before shaking his head. “Truth is, she simply cared enough to listen.”

His smile grows as though he’s remembering a private joke. “One night a friend asked why I kept watching my own wife across every room we walked into, and I told him I wasn’t.”

“What did he say?”

“He laughed at me.” The donor finishes his wine and hands the empty glass to a passing server. “He said I’d been doing it for forty years.”

His words stay with me as another guest calls his name from across the ballroom. He excuses himself with an apologetic smile, pats my shoulder on the way past, and leaves me standing where I am.

My attention is already drifting back toward Emma. She’s listening more than she’s speaking again.

She laughs at something the woman beside her says, reaches out to squeeze her arm, and somehow turns what should’ve been another polite conversation into one that already feels like an old friendship.

“I had a feeling I’d find you over here.” Emma steps beside me carrying two glasses of sparkling water and offers me one before looking toward the couple she’s just left. “Mrs. Henderson invited Sprout to next year’s gala.”

I take the glass from her, smiling despite myself. “Did she specify whether we’re invited too?”

“We’re optional.” Her eyes dance with amusement. “Sprout apparently made a lasting impression at the charity picnic.”

“He usually does.”

She laughs as we turn toward the stage together where the chairman is welcoming everyone to the evening’s awards.

Applause rolls through the ballroom before the keynote speaker begins recognizing this year’s honorees, and I’ve almost convinced myself to focus on the presentation when my phone vibrates inside my jacket.

I glance at the screen.

Private Number.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Emma before stepping out into the hallway and answering the call. “Wolf.”

A woman introduces herself as Angela, the director of Haven House East, her tone careful enough that I know she’s choosing every word before she says it.

“I remembered the notice asking us to contact your office if Nora Bell ever reached out,” she says. “She came to the shelter yesterday afternoon.”

Every conversation from the ballroom disappears. “Did you speak with her?”

“I did.”

“What was she looking for?”

“She wanted to know whether anyone from the Wolf family had been asking about her.”

I walk toward the windows overlooking the avenue, my attention fixed entirely on the call. “Did she leave a phone number or an address?”

“No. And I didn’t ask because she said she’d call back.” She sighs. “Although she hasn’t yet.”

I pause beside the glass. “Did she mention Celeste?”

Angela takes a breath before answering. “She told one of our counselors that Celeste saved her life.”

I tighten my grip on the phone. “When did she leave?”

“About twenty minutes after she arrived.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

The call ends, but I stay where I am, looking through the windows without seeing the traffic below.