“Do you know how many bullet points thirty-nine is, Henri? Quite a few, as it turns out. Especially when they each have a full flash card.”

Her tone isn’t quite disdain as much as resentment for the level of high school nonsense I inadvertently brought into her life.

“But that’s my daughter. She was adamant that you deserved it despite choking like a punk at your first interview.”

“Was that a direct quote from her?” I manage to ask.

Chantale smirks in a shrug, preferring not to answer. As far as I could tell, Chantale and her twin sister are born straightforward, but tonight’s Chantale is uncensored in an unfamiliar way and that might be due to the fact that she’s a little tipsier than either of us initially thought.

“At any rate, that’s the reason you got caught. The first thing I did when I came home was write your letter of recommendation. I had hoped it wasn’t too late. Needless to say, getting two separate emails from me was what tipped off the dean. Not to mention the excessive use of exclamation points in the first one. There’s a grace missing from your forgery. It at least tells me you don’t have the natural disposition of a criminal.” She puts down her already-empty glass and stares me down. “I have something for you.”

She goes to a braided basket on a shelf in which I know the house keeps their bills, delivery menus, and envelopes, and she collects a single printed sheet folded into thirds.

When I reach out to take it, she pulls back, withholding it for a moment.

“I’m not doing this as an act of kindness. I hope you understand that.”

“Okay . . .” I take the sheet and fold it into itself once more and hold on to it, because crumbling the whole thing into my pocket would feel rude.

“This is salt. So the lesson stings. So you don’t keep going through life on a ledge like this.” She pauses for a beat as if interrogating her own thoughts at the moment. “Also . . . you hurt my daughter. I never thought I was cut out to be a mother, truth be told. But there’s an interesting motherly instinct in me at the moment that wants to hurt you.”

“Oh,” I say, taking a cautious step backward. Palm Tree seems on alert all of a sudden.

“Like, rip-off-your-spine hurt you. It’s very odd.” She taps her index finger along the wineglass.

“I should probably get going now.”

“Quite.”

“I really like your daughter,” I try, against my better judgment, once I’m at the door again. “Love. I love her.”

If surprise never registers on Chantale Troy’s face, let the record show that I come pretty close to summoning it tonight.