On paper.
In envelopes.
With dates written on the back.
She had spent the afternoon photographing the flowers, the table, and Oliver carefully folding the place cards.
“I wasn’t watching anyone,” she told me.
“I understand.”
“I was trying to get pictures before dinner.”
She pressed a button.
The first photograph showed Charles near the library doors, holding his pocket watch open for two guests.
The case was intact.
The chain hung from his waistcoat.
He had been explaining the engraving on the back.
I remembered the conversation.
His father’s initials.
A railway station.
A retirement gift.
Maria moved to the next picture.
Oliver stood beside a large vase on the conservatory table.
He was laughing at something outside the frame.
A white rose lay across his palm.
“That was before we moved the flowers,” she said.
My son had already explained where he was.
Now I saw him there.
Bianca folded her arms.
“Being elsewhere earlier doesn’t prove anything.”
Maria didn’t answer.
She moved through several more photographs.
A tray of glasses.
My sister beside the fireplace.
The long table before everyone sat down.
Then she stopped.
Patrick stood near the staircase.
He was looking at something gold in his hand.
Charles leaned closer.
“That’s my watch.”
Patrick gave a short laugh.
“Yes. I was looking at it.”
Charles turned toward him.
“When?”
“Before dinner.”
“Did you take it from my waistcoat?”
Bianca spoke quickly.
“I gave it to him.”
The room changed.
Not with a shout.
With the sudden stillness of people realizing the first explanation had been incomplete.
I looked at my wife.
“You gave him the watch.”
“Charles had been showing everyone.”
