Page 74 of Ricardo

But I notice the slight tension in her fingers.

She is not intimidated.

She has been in buildings like these before. She has been around people like these before.

No, she is not intimidated. She is alert.

A corridor opens ahead, paneled in dark wood and lined with framed photographs of tournaments, charity luncheons, men shaking hands over silver cups.

Julia’s gaze moves over them once.

“Do any of the women here get portraits,” she asks quietly, “or are they only trophies?”

I look at the nearest photograph. Six men in blazers. One woman at the edge, holding a ribbon for someone else to cut.

“She is the chairman’s wife,” I say.

“Of course she is.”

“She raised the money for the event.”

Julia’s mouth tightens. “And he held the scissors for someone else to cut the ribbon.”

“Yes.”

She gives the photograph one last look, then continues walking. “My mother chaired three hospital galas, two scholarship funds, and a capital campaign for a children’s wing. My father gave one speech at the ribbon cutting, and people congratulated him for years.”

There is no surprise in her voice.

We pass another row of photographs. Golf trophies. Sailing weekends. A charity auction where the women stand in evening gowns near the back of the frame, smiling like Stepford wives.

“Did she mind?” I ask.

“My mother?” Julia’s fingers shift on her bag. “No. She believed being indispensable behind the scenes was its own kind of power.”

“And you?”

“I believed her for a long time.”

She says it in an even tone, but I hear the edge beneath it.

At the end of the corridor, glass doors open onto the terrace. Sunlight pours through them, bright over the stone floor. Beyond the doors, members sit beneath striped umbrellas with cocktails, salads, newspapers, and the ease of people who have never had to wonder whether they would make rent while lounging around at 11:00 on a weekday morning.

And they would be appalled at the implication that they were lazy for it.

Julia slows for half a step while looking for the man in question.

I follow her gaze across the terrace to the table near the west steps. Alistair Valecourt sits with one ankle crossed over his knee and a glass of something amber at his elbow. Early sixties, silver hair. Pink face from the sun or too much alcohol. The posture of a man who’s had multiple drinks and nowhere else to be.

He sees me first.

Then he sees Julia beside me.

His smile appears slowly.

It's not a warm smile.

I already dislike the next ten minutes.