Adrienne watched recognition replace certainty.
Richard whispered:
“I didn't know who you were.”
She had heard variations of that sentence throughout her career.
At banks.
At conferences.
At corporate dinners.
Usually spoken as though ignorance were an acquittal.
Adrienne looked at him.
“That isn't the defense you think it is.”
Richard swallowed.
“No.”
He recovered slightly.
“You’re right.”
That surprised her.
Not enough.
But some.
He continued.
“I made an assumption.”
Adrienne waited.
Richard glanced toward the nearby members listening.
For once, he seemed to understand that an audience was not the point.
He looked back at her.
“I assumed you were not authorized to be here before I checked.”
“Yes.”
“And I spoke to you as though my assumption gave me authority over you.”
“Yes.”
His face tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
Adrienne nodded once.
“Thank you.”
Then she looked toward Julian.
“Upstairs?”
He gestured toward the administrative corridor.
“This way.”
She started walking.
Richard remained behind.
Adrienne had almost reached the door when he said:
“Ms. Warren.”
She turned.
Richard looked genuinely unsettled now.
“I knew your father.”
Adrienne’s expression changed.
Not softened.
Changed.
“Did you?”
Richard heard the question beneath the question.
He hesitated.
“Yes.”
Adrienne looked toward the bronze portrait wall.
“Then we'll probably have more to discuss than the dining room.”
She followed Julian through the door.
Richard did not move for several seconds.
The man with the newspaper finally folded it.
“Hell of a start to the meeting.”
Richard looked at him.
“Go to hell, Paul.”
Paul took another sip of coffee.
“Probably.”
The upstairs boardroom overlooked the same avenue but felt nothing like the dining room below. Long conference table. Screens. Legal pads. Bottled water. A framed copy of the club’s 1904 charter.
No portraits.
Adrienne preferred it immediately.
Six people were already seated.
Club president Margaret Ellison.
Treasurer David Lin.
Two outside attorneys.
A representative from Marlowe Urban Partners, the developer offering to purchase the building.
And Adrienne’s younger brother, Jonathan Warren, appearing by video from Washington, D.C.
Jonathan saw her enter.
“You're late.”
Adrienne sat.
“Hello to you too.”
“You said four.”
“It is four-oh-six.”
“Exactly.”
Margaret Ellison smiled nervously.
“Welcome, Adrienne.”
“Thank you.”
Margaret was sixty-two, white, precise, and one of the few Wycliffe leaders who had called Adrienne directly rather than routing every conversation through lawyers.
That counted for something.
Adrienne opened her leather portfolio.
“Where’s Richard?”
Margaret looked toward the door.
“He texted that he needed five minutes.”
Julian sat against the wall.
His expression remained professionally blank.
Adrienne looked at him.
“Did he tell you why?”
“No.”
Jonathan leaned closer to his camera.
“Why?”
Adrienne answered: