Rita's Point Of View
The table went completely dead silent again. Even the staff members who entered to refill water glasses moved like ghosts, their footsteps muffled on the thick carpet, afraid to make a sound that might draw attention. They'd clearly been warned about tonight's delicate situation. Nobody spoke for the rest of the meal.
The only sounds were the scrape of silverware against china and the occasional cough that seemed deafening in the oppressive quiet. The moment the plates were cleared by the silent staff, Matilda stood up, her hands gripping the edge of the mahogany table for balance, her knuckles bone-white.
"Let's move to the living room," Matilda said, her voice strained and thin, barely above a whisper. "We will have coffee there."
