I don’t know how many people sat right where we are now, drinking her sweet tea, eating her cupcakes, smiling and laughing—right before they died.

Aubrey stands up, raising her glass, her face glowing with what looks like genuine affection. The illusion is seamless. She’s always been good at that.

“A toast,” she says, her voice full of warmth. “To Gabriel, the love of my life. And to family, who keep his memory alive.”

Selene’s hand brushes against mine as we lift our glasses. It’s small, but it grounds me and keeps me from drowning in the rage that’s threatening to swallow me whole.

Mo shifts slightly, holding up her glass but keeping her fingers curled around the rim, her lips pressed together in a look that almost resembles a smile.

None of us drink.

Aubrey doesn’t notice.

Or maybe she does.

And maybe that’s the real game we’re playing now—waiting to see who cracks first.

I can feel my pulse in my throat, heavy and unrelenting. If she did poison us, we have fifteen minutes until she notices we haven’t taken a drink. The thought makes my stomach churn, but I keep my expression smooth, even as my fingers tighten around the glass.

Mo, ever the actress, takes a loud, exaggerated gulp, smacking her lips as she sets the glass down on the blanket. “Mmm, just like I remember it,” she says with a grin. “You’ve still got the touch, Auntie.”

I don’t know how she does it. How she can smile at a woman who might have killed both her husbands and my parents without her hands shaking? My fingers twitch, my nails pressing into my palm. The woman I loved like a mother, the woman who taught me how to run my mother’s business and make the perfect caramel for Christmas popcorn, is looking at us like she’s hosting a goddamn garden party. Like she doesn’t have blood on her hands.

Aubrey beams, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she takes a sip of her own drink. My grip tightens on my glass. If there’s raw elderberry in here, does she trust that we’ll drink before she does? Or is she just that arrogant?

“Thank you, Morgan,” Aubrey says, her voice warm. “I’ve had plenty of practice over the years. Gabriel always insisted on perfection.”

Perfection. My jaw clenches so hard it aches.

She perfected everything—her lies, her masks, the way she wrapped us all around her little finger. And I was the easiest one to fool.

Selene sets her glass down on the edge of the blanket, her hand steady despite the tension in her shoulders. “It’s perfect,” she says softly, her tone unreadable.

I can feel the weight of her words. The accusation was just beneath them.