I felt a paradoxical combination of claustrophobia and relief, like a baby struggling to be born, then summarily sucked back up into the womb by some incomprehensible force.

“Nice place,” Greer said, in a reverent whisper. Up ahead, the Larimers, chauffeured by the ever-present Joseph, got out of a black Jag. Joseph hurried to open the trunk, where Barbara’s wheelchair was stowed, but she shook her head and entered the house on her husband’s arm. “Just think,” Greer said. “If Lillian hadn’t abducted you, you might have grown up here.”

A surge of defensiveness seared its way along every vein, like the unseen impact of a blast. Before I could speak, though, Jolie squeezed my hand.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said.

The driver opened the door on my side, and I got out. Rested one hand on the roof of the limo to steady myself a little. Joseph sprinted down to the gates, and they swung open to admit another car.

Barbara and I are having a few people in, my uncle had said, back at the cemetery. I wondered who they were, these “few people,” but in the final analysis, I didn’t really care. As long as they didn’t ask any questions, we’d get along fine.

The gathering was held on the large patio behind the main house. In daylight, the Larimer swimming hole looked roughly the size of the reflecting pool at the base of the Washington Monument. A variety of cold cuts, crackers and cheeses had been set out on a long table set in the shade of the extended roof.

I was suddenly starved. At the same time, I knew if I tried to swallow so much as a nibble, my throat would clamp shut or I would retch.

I waited for a cue from Senator Larimer, but it was Joseph who came to my side.

“Good thing they didn’t put out the heirloom silver,” I told him, sotto voce, indicating the elegantly casual picnic spread. “Plastic flatware is a lot less risky, with me around.”

“Truce,” he said, with the semblance of a smile. “Can I get you something?”

I wasn’t ready to sign a peace treaty and, anyway, anger felt a smidgeon better than the incessant, throbbing sorrow of losing Lillian. “Cyanide?” I suggested. A wild thought landed, and I examined him narrowly. “Or maybe chow mein with a dash of rat poisoning for flavor?”

Either Joseph was genuinely puzzled, or he had a SAG card tucked away somewhere. “Maybe you should sit down,” he said, frowning. “You’re really not making much sense.”

Barbara passed by, elegant in the kind of black knit suit they sell out of vaults, greeting perhaps a dozen guests. I didn’t recognize any of them, but that didn’t mean anything. I was used to strangers; I saw one looking back at me out of the mirror every morning.