The longer Michael held her gaze, the more Linsy felt the walls of the penthouse closing in. His suspicion was a tangible force, a cold draft seeping through the cracks of her composure. She could feel her own pulse hammering in her throat, a traitorous drumbeat against the silence. Unconsciously, her fingers curled into the silk of her pajamas, knuckles bleaching white.

“My parents… they make that crab dish every single time,” she said, the words coming too quickly. “Out of habit. I ...