Arthur rested a hand on my knee during the drive and hummed under his breath. Whenever the car passed beneath a streetlight, he checked our reflection in the dark window. I kept my hands folded over the silver cufflink and my face turned toward the glass.
The car left the main road and turned into a service alley behind a row of brick buildings. An unmarked steel door slid open only after the driver showed something through his window. A valet in black waved us through. The Solstice Gathering had no sign, no public entrance, and no curious pedestrians nearby.
Inside, men spoke over low music with whiskey glasses in hand. I recognized a judge from Arthur's campaign, two donors who had funded his last advertising push, and several men whose photographs had appeared beside state contracts.
