Sparks fly from his eyes when he passes the herd of microphone waving media. “It's a family matter,” he growls, brushing a matinee idol curl from his forehead. His sandpaper grip wrenches his wife's weeping hand. Shoulders hunched, she looks down at her toenails, manicured to perfection that morning.

From the chauffeured Mercedes idling at the curb, their sloe gin daughter watches them approach. Her tiny fingers fumble for back pocket wishes as dread, seeping from the floor boards, soaks her mary jane shoes.