The fact that his granddaughter had just turned sixteen was only tangentially relevant to Freddie Clarke’s latest dinner party. Of the roughly two dozen guests in attendance, most of them were adults—friends and associates of Clarke’s, here for the free food and the company of their illustrious peers. The birthday girl herself had put in a token appearance at the start of the evening, taken a few photos for her burgeoning online following, then disappeared into her room with her phone.
Pre-dinner drinks were had in Clarke’s parlour, a spacious 70s deco-luxe lounge decorated in shades of cream and gold. The murmur of multiple conversations filled the space, an occasional laugh or exclamation breaking through the incoherent babble.
Derek Chapman was having an awful evening. He’d won a few seconds of the host’s time upon his arrival, but that had ended quickly as Clarke turned his attention toward the next guest to arrive. Now Chapman wandered the parlour, wine glass in hand, hovering at the edge of one conversation for a few minutes before moving on to the next. The other guests barely noticed him.
There was a bright moment of hope when he spotted Clarke apparently alone, standing in the high, arched doorway between the parlour and the foyer. It was only as Chapman got closer that he noticed Clarke was talking to someone standing just outside the room: a younger man, wearing a light grey suit.
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