THE LAST FOUR PHOTOGRAPHS

“She caught it in the linen closet.”

Luca Moretti’s fiancée said it before he had asked how I hurt my hand.

I stood in the middle of his dining room with six bowls of hot soup pressed against my hip. Twenty-three guests sat beneath the chandeliers. My left hand was hidden in a thin black glove, and Vanessa Bellini had just told everyone the lie I was supposed to tell.

Luca turned to me. “Claire. Is that what happened?”

“Yes.”

My voice came out thin. I hated it.

“Put the tray down.”

“I can serve dinner, Mr. Moretti.”

“I didn’t ask.”

I set the tray on the sideboard. Porcelain clicked against silver. Across the table, Vanessa lifted her water glass as if none of this concerned her.

Luca held out his hand. “The glove.”

Three hours earlier, Vanessa had locked me inside the upstairs linen closet. My hand still throbbed where she had twisted it. I had spent dinner telling myself to keep my head down, finish my shift, and go home.

Now everyone was looking at me.

I peeled the glove away. My fingers were swollen, two taped together. Four bruises marked my wrist.

Luca studied them. “A door did that?”

I nodded.

Vanessa sighed. “She’s embarrassed. Let her go.”

“How do you know she’s embarrassed?” Luca asked.

“She told me what happened.”

He looked back at me. “Did you?”

I should have said yes immediately. I waited one second too long.

Luca noticed.

“Claire,” he said quietly, “are you afraid of losing this job?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re paid for the whole night. Mrs. Ellis will take you upstairs, and Dr. Harris will look at your hand.”

Vanessa’s glass stopped halfway to her mouth. “That seems excessive.”

Luca looked at her. “How badly is she hurt?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Exactly.”

Mrs. Ellis, the head housekeeper, led me out. At the doorway, I glanced back. Luca had sat down again. He asked a guest about the wedding flowers, and conversation slowly returned to the table.

Vanessa smiled, but only after she saw him smile first.

I knew what she thought: he had let it go.