Donald moved through the reconfigured space, conducting his assessment without causing much commotion. He understood that premature conclusions created more problems than they solved.
With that he questioned a bartender who had seen the start of it. He spoke briefly with a couple who had been on the dance floor. He looked at Sophie's wrist, the bruising that had already deepened into a visible ring of purple-red, and his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
The narrative assembled itself quickly and cleanly. One party had initiated. One party had responded. The moral arithmetic was straightforward.
He was in the middle of processing the implications when one of his staff murmured the name, offhandedly, incidentally, passing along information the way people pass along weather observations.
"Stan Harrison."
Donald went still.
