With a strangled cry of pure desperation, she lunged forward, her hands outstretched like talons, trying desperately to grab the glass, to smash it, to dispose of the only thing that could condemn her.
“Don’t touch that!” I commanded, my voice sharp and loud. I rose quickly from my chair, pulling the heavy tablecloth—and everything on it—out of her reach.
At that exact moment, the night was split open by the wail of police sirens. The sound grew louder, closer, stopping abruptly outside. The guests gasped as the front doors burst open and police officers, accompanied by a forensic team in lab coats, stormed into the dining room.
They went straight to the table, their focus immediate and professional.
“Ms. Sarah Miller?” a stern-faced detective asked, his eyes scanning the chaotic scene.
“Yes,” I said, my voice steady. I pointed to the gravy-stained glass, which I now held safely aloft. “That is the report. And this wine glass is the evidence of attempted murder. I suggest you handle it with care.”
Maya was immediately seized by two officers, her frantic struggles useless against their firm grip.
