Outside, rain swept across the glass walls and silver sheets. Inside, everything gleamed. Naomi and Nia arrived through the service entrance at 6:15, wearing the same plain volunteer uniforms from Ruth's kitchen. White shirts, black slacks, black shoes, nothing tailored, nothing expensive. Denise had ironed both shirts that afternoon.
"Stand straight," she had told them before they left. Nia had smiled. "You say that like we're going to court." Denise had looked at both daughters for a long second. "Sometimes rooms like that judge faster than courtrooms."
Naomi had understood. Now standing beneath the chandeliers of the donor hall, she understood even more. The room was full of people who seemed to belong without ever being asked to prove it. Men in dark suits, women in expensive coats, administrators wearing name badges with gold trim, several members of Riverton's board, and near the center of it all, Charles Whitmore, 55 years old, silver at the temples, confident posture, the kind of man who did not need to raise his voice because everyone around him had already decided to listen. A large display behind him carried the words Whitmore Athletic Center.
$4.8 million community investment. Nia read it while balancing a tray. Community. Naomi heard the edge in her voice. Don't.
I didn't say anything. You were about to. Nia sighed. You always ruined the fun. Naomi almost smiled.
Then she saw Ryan. He stood beside his father near a cluster of donors. Jake was with him. Connor too. Ryan noticed the twins almost immediately.
His expression changed. Not surprise. Satisfaction. Naomi felt it from across the room. He had been waiting for this.
She looked away first, not because she was afraid, because she had work to do. For the next hour, the twins carried trays, cleared glasses, directed guests toward the coat check, and helped Ruth's kitchen staff move food from the service corridor. Naomi kept her attention on the room. Not Ryan, not Charles, the people who needed something. That was safer.
At 7:03, she saw Leon Harris sway near the edge of the ballroom. Leon was 71, a retired Riverton custodian who had worked at the college for more than 30 years. He had been invited as a former employee honored in a small community display near the entrance. Nobody noticed him at first. He rested one hand against a column.
His face had gone pale. Naomi sat down her tray. Mr. Harris. He looked at her. I'm all right.
No, sir. She reached him just as his knees softened. Naomi caught his arm and guided him toward a chair. Nia appeared from the opposite side. What happened?
Dizzy. Leon tried to wave them off. I skipped dinner. Naomi glanced toward the half empty plate on a nearby table. You're sitting down.
I am sitting down. Good. Nia crouched beside him. You want water? Yes, please.
Naomi stayed with him while Nia hurried away. Around them, donors continued talking. Glasses clinkedked. Someone laughed near the stage. The quartet shifted into another song.
Leon looked embarrassed. I didn't mean to make a scene. Naomi knelt slightly so he would not have to look up at her. You didn't. Everybody's staring.
Naomi glanced around. A few people were. Most were not. Let them. Leon gave her a tired smile.