Oh no.I killed him. I killed George Maddox with one mildly awkward hand-hold over the pasta, and Eleanor is never going to forgive me, and this is going to be a very difficult wedding to coordinate from prison.
Margaret reaches for the water pitcher with the practised calm of a woman who has weathered many things. "George."
"I'm fine," he manages, hoarse and entirely unconvincing, which is exactly what a person says when they are not fine at all. He coughs again, harder, and pushes his chair back from the table. The legs scrape loudly across the floor. "I just—" He gestures vaguely toward the hallway, the gesture of a man attempting to exit a burning building while maintaining what remains of his dignity.
George disappears through the doorway.
I set my napkin down.
"I should—"
Margaret waves a hand before I can finish the sentence.
"Go."
