Maksim lifts a brow. “No?”
“No.”
He studies my face for a second longer, then lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “Remarkable,” he says.
“What is?”
“That apparently your dried-up old balls still have enough fight in them to worry you.”
I turn my head and look at him.
He shrugs. “I was under the impression men your age were mostly decorative.”
“I’m touched by your faith in me.”
“I have no faith in you. Only eyes.”
Despite myself, I almost smile.
Almost.
“Call me when you know something,” I tell him.
“I will.” He starts away, then stops and looks back over his shoulder. “And Viktor?”
“Yes?”
“If the baby is not yours, then stop looking like you want it to be.”
Then he walks away before I can decide whether to insult him for that or thank him.
By the time I get downstairs, Yuri has taken over the study.
It’s the only room in the house with enough privacy and enough screens to make it useful. The estate’s security feed is spread across two monitors on the desk, black-and-white angles from the lawn, the terrace, the service path, the side hall, the breakfast tables before and after the collapse. He stands with one hand on the back of a chair, watching the footage roll forward and back in clipped increments, his expression as unreadable as the screens.
I close the door behind me. “What do we have?”
“Not enough yet.”
“Anything?”
He rewinds a section of footage and lets it play again. A server crossing the terrace with a tray of champagne. Guests shifting in and out of frame. White tablecloths. Too much distance. Too many angles obscured by floral arrangements and people who had no idea they were standing inside a crime scene.
“Not yet,” he says. “The lawn cameras are decorative. Whoever placed them cared more about symmetry than sight lines.” He clicks to another angle. Side terrace this time. A partial view of the bar station. Staff entering and leaving.
“We’ll need all staff movements from an hour before breakfast,” I say. “And everyone who handled service.”
Yuri nods. “Already started.”
Good.
Yuri pauses the footage. “There.” He points at a server crossing from the bar station with a tray of champagne. “One pass to the family table. Then another to the bridesmaids.”
He rewinds a few seconds and lets it play again.
I watch my own hand refuse the offered glass. Watch the tray move on. Watch the bridesmaid take one without looking, still smiling at something someone beside her says. So Sienna was right. The glass was meant for me.
The door opens behind me and someone enters. I know who it is before she speaks.
