No hurried edits.
No statement blaming Ivy.
It was after two in the morning when he finally returned to the ballroom.
The last guests had gone.
A cleaner was collecting broken glass near the entrance.
Ronan recognized her as Mrs. Patel, one of the night-shift employees.
She stopped when she saw him.
“Good evening, sir.”
He glanced at the broom in her hand.
“Good morning, I suppose.”
She offered a small smile.
Then she resumed sweeping.
“Mrs. Patel,” he said.
She stopped again.
“Yes, sir?”
“Did you see what happened tonight?”
Her expression changed.
“I was near the service doors.”
“Did you see Ivy being struck?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t anyone intervene?”
She glanced toward the corridor.
“I don’t know, sir.”
He waited.
Then she said, “I think everybody was waiting for someone important to tell them they could.”
Ronan looked at the empty ballroom.
The flowers.
The chandeliers.
The tables where politicians and investors had sat watching.
He thanked her and went upstairs.
