CHAPTER 1: The Boy at the Rich Man’s Table

The dining hall had gone quiet before anyone admitted it.
Crystal chandeliers glowed above polished wooden tables. White china plates sat untouched beside cut-glass goblets. Men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns watched the small boy standing near Arthur Whitmore's table as if he had stepped out of a room no one wanted opened.
Noah was ten years old, with neat brown hair, a plain beige shirt, and brown trousers that had been pressed by careful hands, not expensive ones.
His right hand was closed around something.
Margaret Whitmore stood in a black sequin gown, diamond earrings sharp against her neck, one finger pointed at his chest.
“Who let this boy near our table?” she demanded.
Noah flinched, but he did not run.
Across the table, Arthur Whitmore lifted his eyes. He was sixty-eight, powerful enough that guests usually lowered their voices when he moved. That night, he looked tired before he looked angry.
Behind Margaret stood James, Arthur's son, one hand clenched at his side.
Noah looked at him only once.
Then he looked at Arthur.
And slowly opened his hand.