Andrew rather ceremoniously picks up his fork, as if he’s discouraging any words that might come out of Lucas’s mouth. Following that lead, Kane and I take a bite of the pot pie and the three of us share our approval. Even Lucas chimes in. “The pot pie is one of the best things I’ve ever eaten. I had two on my own.”

After that, we all just kind of look at each other and with good reason.

It’s an odd, almost normal family moment. If you don’t think about Lucas trying to get me naked, and hacking illegally for the high of it despite a successful career in finance. Or about Andrew and Kane having slept with the same woman and buried the same body. Or about Kane being the son of a dead drug lord and nephew to a current drug lord. Or about my father who is not here because he’s a bastard. Or me. The stabby one. Still, I embrace the façade my mother would enjoy.

“Anything on the fake Naomi?” I ask as Kane I both take another bite.

“Nothing yet,” Andrew says. “That’s why I’m in a rush to eat and get back to work. Anything on your end?”

“Chef Roswell was scheduled for Emma’s wedding,” I say.

Andrew’s brows dip. “And then he ended up at your house? How?”

“A service,” Kane replies. “But I had other options. I chose him because Lilah and I knew him from another event.”

“One Pocher funded on behalf of Dad,” I insert.

Andrew grimaces and accepts his drink from the waitress. “Are we really bringing Dad into a random murder?”

“We’re following the connected dots,” I say. “I didn’t place Dad on the scoreboard. And I’m not saying he’s involved. I’m saying he’s a part of a circle.”

“And you think the chef is part of that circle, too,” he comments. “No one made Kane call him.”

“Which is true,” Kane agrees. “The circle here in the Hamptons is a small one. Once you’re in, you’re in. Obviously, the chef is in that circle.”

“And someone used him to get to us,” I say. “Thus, our visit from fake Naomi tonight.”

“Who’s fake Naomi?” Lucas asks.

“That’s the question,” I reply. “We don’t know.”

“The question is,” Andrew interjects with a lift of his fork, “was fake Naomi the one who left you that jar of blood and killed Emma?”

“A jar of blood?” Lucas demands, leaning in closer. “Lilah, what is going on?”

“My job,” I say, tuning him out and focusing on Andrew. “My gut says she’s a player in a game, not the creator of the game.”