She had taken another photograph of the table after adjusting the angle.

The reflection was clearer.

Bianca was holding the damaged watch.

Not finding it beside Oliver.

Holding it before he returned with the flowers.

I looked at her.

“Why didn’t you tell us you had it?”

She opened her mouth.

No answer came.

From beside my sister, Oliver spoke.

“I was still with Maria.”

I turned.

He had been listening to every word.

His face was wet.

“Yes,” I said.

Then I made myself finish the sentence.

“You were.”

Maria did not need to show another photograph.

There were details left to establish.

There was a broken watch to account for.

There were two adults who had handled it and a story that had changed several times.

But my son did not need to remain under accusation while we completed the evening.

I crossed to him.

“I’m sorry I left you standing there.”

Oliver looked up.

“You didn’t make me say it.”

“No.”

I crouched.

“But I should have helped you sooner.”

He swallowed.

“Do you think I did it?”

“No.”

The answer came without hesitation.

He looked toward Bianca.

“What if she still says?”

“Then I will ask her for the truth. You don’t have to keep defending yourself.”

His mouth trembled.

He leaned against me.

I held him.

Behind us, someone began gathering glasses, then stopped as though movement itself had become impolite.

I stood with my son.

“Francesca, would you take him into the sitting room?”

Oliver caught my sleeve.

“You’re coming?”

“Yes. I need a few minutes, and then I’ll come.”

“How many?”

I looked at the clock.

“Ten.”

He nodded.