Page 72 of Laced With Secrets

I finished my sandwich and returned to the refreshment table, claiming a chair near the window. I was still ravenous despite having just eaten. Pregnancy hunger was relentless—one moment satisfied, the next feeling like I hadn’t eaten in days.

I’d just balanced my fresh plate of sandwich wedges and a cup of fruit punch on my lap when Dominic appeared at my elbow.

“Leo, I’m gonna step outside for a while,” he said, his phone in hand. “I need to take this call, probably fifteen minutes. Blake needs me—something urgent that requires immediate attention.”

“It’s fine,” I assured him. “I’m just feeding the baby.”

“Stay right here,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that protective rumble that made his scent spike with pine. “Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.”

“What trouble can I get into while eating finger sandwiches at a memorial reception?”

His eyes narrowed, sharp gray irises catching the light as he scrutinized my face. “That’s exactly the kind of statement from you that worries me. If?—”

“Dom.” I touched his arm. “I’ll be fine—we’llbe fine. Go handle your business crisis. I’ll be right here, safely surrounded by finger sandwiches and elderly Historical Society members.”

I smiled serenely at him as I gently adjusted his scarf, making sure the wool protected his neck from the bitter cold. “And please don’t freeze while you’re out there.”

He hesitated, clearly torn between his desire to stay close to me and his professional obligations. “Fifteen minutes at most. Then we’re leaving.”

“Deal.”

He pressed a quick kiss to my temple before heading toward the hallway, phone already raised to his ear. I watched him go, then settled back in my chair with my plate.

I’d just bit into another cucumber sandwich when I heard a voice nearby.

“Mrs. Whitmore, let me get you positioned here by the window. The light’s better.”

My head snapped up. Mrs. Whitmore?

An elderly woman in a wheelchair was being positioned in the empty space beside my chair. Her aide—a middle-aged woman in comfortable shoes—adjusted the brake and then smoothed the blanket over the older woman’s lap, tucking it snugly around her thin legs until it cocooned her perfectly.

The woman sat very still, her shaking fingers gripping the armrests, staring out the window at the winter afternoon. Her silver hair was pulled into an elegant bun, and she wore a simple black dress that suggested old money. She wasn’t engaging withother attendees, wasn’t looking at the memorial displays. Just… sitting. Alone with her thoughts.

My heart hammered. Constance Whitmore. The judge’s widow. Here. Right beside me.

I should get Dominic. I should stay quiet, finish my sandwich, not engage.

But she was here. At Thomas’s memorial. After refusing every official interview.

“Mrs. Whitmore?” I said quietly.

She turned her head toward me, and up close I could see she had to be in her nineties. But there was something in the set of her jaw, the elegant way she held herself despite obvious frailty.

She studied me for a long moment, something complicated crossing her weathered face.

“Benji Sterling-Hart’s grandson,” she said finally, her voice surprisingly strong. “The one who gave the speech.”

“You knew my grandfather?”

“He made shoes for my daughter’s wedding.” Her gaze moved over my features, lingering on my hair. “You have the Sterling red hair. I remember Benji had it too, before it went as white as snow.”

“I’m sorry,” I said carefully. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Leo.”

“Constance.” She watched my face for a reaction, and I’m sure she got one—subtle recognition, maybe a flash of unease I couldn’t quite hide. “I see you know who I am.”

The aide shifted nervously, clearly picking up on the sudden tension.

“You came all the way from Connecticut,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even.