Dinner was wrapping up. The long wooden table was a mess of plates, wine glasses, and half-eaten food. Someone laughed too loud on one end. The joke got passed down the table, a little less funny by the time it reached the other side.
Claire sat in the middle, smiling just enough to look like she was enjoying herself. Her hand rested near her full glass. The lamb was good. The music wasn't bad. Everything smelled like smoke and expensive cologne.
Then Camila walked in.
Same purple dress. Clean. Perfect. Her hair was pulled back neat, not a strand out of place. No blood. No sign of struggle. Her heels made no sound on the tiled floor, like she floated in.
Claire stared at the dress—was it a copy? A replacement? Or had she washed it? Then dried it while someone hosed down the floor?
Camila looked fresh. Polished. She kissed someone's cheek, poured wine for a man who definitely didn't need more, and said something nice about the lamb.
