Someone pulled the bodice stitches out and poured red wine down the skirt.”
Clara’s eyes flicked — just once — toward the stairs.
“Don’t,” I said. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you I know it was you.”
She scoffed.
“That is a serious accusation.”
“It’s a serious thing you did. And you didn’t even clean up after yourself.”
Her nostrils flared.
“The pinot from last night?” I said. “The one Daniel put away?”
I took one step closer.
“It’s still capped in the kitchen.
But there’s an empty bottle in your bathroom trash — and that stain is the same deep burgundy.”
Clara’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
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