Two officers stepped in first. Then another. Then a detective in plain clothes, middle-aged, tired eyes, the look of a man who had already dealt with one too many ridiculous rich-people crimes this week.

And behind them, heels clicking, breath catching, face streaked with makeup, Isabella stumbled out of the hallway, clutching her robe around herself.

“Stephy?” she gasped. “What is this? What… what’s happening?”

Her eyes darted to the officers, then to me, then back again. She looked like a panicked squirrel. A very stupid panicked squirrel.

The detective looked between us. “Mister Maddens?”

I gave him a courteous nod, as if he were a waiter and I’d just...