Finally, Alma was standing in front of me. She said something I could not hear. Laughing, she repeated it, but her words were lost in the noise around us. She rose up on her toes, slipped her thin arm around my neck, and kissed the side of my face. "In the kitchen!" she shouted into my ear. Her hand fell away, coming to rest on my shoulder, as she searched my eyes to see if I understood. As I nodded helplessly, she stepped back, her fingers sweeping along my coat sleeve until they reached my hand. She squeezed it and then, letting go, moved back into the crowd. On the other side of the dining room, empty of furniture except for the table, moved up against the wall, a woman carrying a tray stacked with platters of steaming food shouldered her way through a swinging door. She put everything down, arranging each dish, and went back for more. Horace was standing over the stove, an enormous gas range with a stainless steel hood that towered up to the ceiling. Groaning, he scraped another load of chicken wings from the grill and, with a cautionary look, handed the hot pan to the woman I had seen earlier.
What do You think about Prosecution: A Legal Thriller?
