You're late, Martha, my husband Julian said, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin without even looking up from his lobster shell. "Pay the bill, would you? We're done."
A heavy quiet settled over the dining room as Julian disappeared into the manager’s office. The other diners slowly returned to their conversations, though their voices were hushed, their eyes still occasionally darting towards our table.
Agent Miller approached me, his expression still formal. “Mrs. Albright,” he said, “we’d like to ask you to come down to the OPA office tomorrow morning to give a full statement. We’ll be in touch with details.”
I nodded. “I will be there, Agent Miller.”
Genevieve Ross closed her notebook, a look of grim satisfaction on her face. “Mrs. Albright,” she said, her voice softer than before, “thank you. This is a crucial piece of a much larger story.”
I simply nodded again. There was nothing more to say, no grand statement to make.
I picked up my handbag, its familiar weight a small comfort. Thomas, who had been sitting quietly at a nearby table since the agents arrived, now stood up, his face pale but resolute. He came to my side, his hand finding mine, his fingers intertwining with mine in a reassuring grip.
We walked out of the Carlton Hotel dining room together. The maître d’, Henri Moreau, offered a slight, respectful bow as we passed. Clara and Arthur Pendelton remained at the table, a tableau of self-preservation and fear.
Outside, the elegant entrance of the hotel was bathed in the dim, artificial glow of streetlamps, fighting against the encroaching dusk. A fine, cold drizzle had begun to fall, slicking the pavement.
A small group of reporters and photographers, alerted by Genevieve Ross, stood huddled under umbrellas. Their flashes popped, illuminating our faces in stark, fleeting bursts of light.
“Mrs. Albright!” one called out. “Any comment on your husband’s arrest?”
“Is it true he was running a black-market ring?” another shouted.
“How long have you known about the forgeries?”
I kept my gaze forward, my posture erect. Thomas walked beside me, his head held high. I refused to give them the sensational quote they craved, the dramatic outburst they expected from a betrayed wife.
My silence, my calm, unreadable posture, felt like its own statement. It was a refusal to engage in their drama, a quiet assertion of dignity in the face of public spectacle.
We hailed a taxi, the yellow cab pulling up to the curb, its headlights cutting through the gloom. As we settled into the back seat, I glanced back at the Carlton. Its grand facade, usually so inviting, now seemed to loom over the scene of Julian’s ruin.
The rain intensified, streaking down the windows, blurring the lights of the city. My public walkout was complete. The world knew Julian’s secret, but the war, for me, was far from over.
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