Wilson steps forward and adjusts his glasses. “Sir, the meeting with Moncler is in half an hour. The signal here is spotty. I suggest we head back to the airport, though I’ll defer the decision to you.”

My father nods without argument, already prepared to leave.

There will be no picnic blanket and sandwiches for us, no brief catch-up and posed photos for Facebook. What was the point of him being here at all? Was it simply so he could take stock of his investment? Check to see if his prized racehorses are being properly cared for?

He gives me one last once-over, pausing when he reaches my face.

“I don’t want to see anything like that ever again. You’re a representation of the Mercier family, and you’ll behave accordingly.”

He’s referring to the shiner on my cheek from where I took that punch at the soccer game.

Then he turns, motioning for Wilson to hand him his phone, and poof, he’s gone. Back from whence he came.

Tonight, I wish I had an actual friend. I used to have one here. Jonathan was his name, but he graduated a few years ago. His family is in the wine and spirits industry. Actually, my father tried to buy their company a few years ago, but they held out. Jonathan’s a good guy. We played soccer together, talked about more than the usual locker room bullshit. He also left me with a bottle of whiskey as a parting gift before he left St. John’s.

I’ve had more than my fair share of the bottle tonight. My head is spinning, but I take another sip because I want to keep a firm grasp on this oblivion. I like it here where the world is paused, the chaos muted. I’m in the library because it’s quiet and no one will look for me here. The guys will knock on my door, wanting something. I want to stay in the back stacks, where the books are so old and the smell of mildew is so strong and sweet that I feel like I’ve fallen into a dream.

Then I hear it.

Someone.

“What the fuck do you want?” I growl.

There’s a sharp intake of breath and then scurrying feet. I turn to see a blur of pink tulle. It’s the Davenport girl. The basket case.

I saw her earlier. She was dressed in that same pale pink tulle dress, her dark hair softly curled. She looked like a doll fresh out of the package. At the Parents Weekend picnic, she sat dutifully on a blanket beside an older woman while three sharply dressed attendants flitted around at their beck and call.

Everyone at St. John’s whispers about Lainey. She’s fragile. Small. Thin. The kind of quiet that scares the shit out of people. Is she lonely or is she haunted? I’ve heard the jeers about her, the sick shit people say even though she’s just a kid.