Speaking of high schoolers who made Leo in his Great Gatsby tux seem average, Merit walked over, wearing the coveted oyster shucking belt. Of course. Because Merit was the golden boy. If there was a perk to get, he got it. I shuddered and said, “How many old ladies have made inappropriate remarks to you so far tonight?”

He looked up at the sky. “Uh, the numbers don’t reach high enough.”

“The challenges of being Merit McDonald,” Ben said. I looked for the joking in his voice, but there wasn’t much.

Merit didn’t respond. “Okay, well, I’m going to get back out there. See if I can get any dollars in my belt.”

He winked at me, and I knew I blushed. I hated how much I liked him, how hard my heart raced when he was around. But there was nothing I could do to change the laws of chemistry.

I ventured out with my tray of crab cakes, making my way toward a cluster of men who seemed ever so slightly overserved. I was about to insert myself and say “Crab cake?” when I heard one of them say, “Laura says Sitterly claims he’s innocent.”

And another said, “Please. Wouldn’t you say you were innocent too?”

A third added, “That son of a bitch lost almost a half a million dollars of my money. He’d better hope he stays in jail.”

I felt frozen, cold inside, and, most of all, invisible. Here they were talking about my father, and they didn’t even notice me.

I couldn’t help myself. I should have walked away, but instead I said, as calmly as I could muster: “He is innocent.” I looked at one of the men whose back had been to me, recognizing him as he turned. “I would think that maybe our judge should realize that people are innocent until proven guilty.”

He chuckled and said, shrugging a little, “Oh, honey, if you believe that man is innocent, you’re even dumber than you look.”

It was like being slapped. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I almost dropped my tray but didn’t, thank goodness. As I stood there, stunned, I registered one of the men saying, “Tommy, for God’s sake. She’s a child.”

And another one, who I thought was Paul Lucas, said, “That’s Bill’s daughter, Tommy.”

As I turned away, the judge—Tommy, I guess—said, “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean—”

I don’t know if it was the cruelness of the comment, his thinking I was dumb, their saying those things about my dad or, maybe worst of all, the idea that I had to face the fact: What if Dad was lying? What if he was guilty, and he was just saying he was innocent? Whatever the case, I burst into tears as I made my way back into the tent.