“Mrs. Whitman.” The restaurant manager stood just ahead of her, not smiling, his posture tense with restraint. He glanced once toward the dining room, then back at her. “Please,” he said, lowering his voice. “I need you to come with me. Right now.” And in that moment—foggy, unsteady, alone—Clare knew that whatever came next had nothing to do with a forgotten bag.
The manager didn’t touch her. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply gestured toward the door beside the host stand. “Would you mind stepping into the office for a moment?” he asked. “Just so we can clear something up.” Clare hesitated. Her legs felt slow, like they didn’t quite trust the floor. “I just need my bag,” she said. “I’m not feeling very well.”