His apartment is a penthouse overlooking Boston. He sits pretty up on the top floor, not a worry in the world. The life of a second-born son…

You’d think I’d envy him, but it’s the opposite. I like the weight I carry on my shoulders. Responsibility suits me. Alexander has too much free time, a perfect example of idle hands being the devil’s playthings. I know he’s using again, chasing women, avoiding my calls.

The party is worse than I expected. He’s let in half the city. I get the impression he might be performing a social experiment: leave the door open and see what oddities wander in. At this very moment, someone is fucking in his bedroom. I know it. If it were me, I’d pull the fire alarm and clear this place out. He doesn’t know these people. If I asked one of them Alexander’s last name, they’d fumble for a response.

I slice through groups of partiers, ignoring everyone. I don’t feel like wasting my time with them, not when I have an objective. I’ve told myself I’m here tonight to talk to Alexander, but there’s a nagging hope in the back of my mind.

Lainey could be here.

It’s more than possible. There will be other St. John’s alumni in attendance, friends I’ve half-heartedly kept up with since boarding school, some more than others. I search through crowded room after crowded room, hunting for dark hair and green eyes. I trick myself into seeing her a thousand times. A head of hair a shade too light. Another not dark enough. A woman two inches too short.

When I spot two friends from St. John’s, I feel my first pang of hope because one of them is Collette. I know she works with Lainey at Morgan’s; I saw her listed under the staff tab on the gallery’s website beside Lainey. How convenient.

She and Harrison are in a sitting room, having carved out a quiet place among the chaos. Harrison’s out on the patio smoking and Collette looks like she’s already a joint in, so to save myself the excruciating task of talking to them stone-cold sober, I offer a short wave then head toward the kitchen to make myself a drink.

Unfortunately, that’s where I find my brother. He’s making out with a girl, acting as if he’s about to take her there against the cabinets.

Thoroughly disturbed by the sight, I head to the bar in the corner.

“This has to be against fire code,” a gruff voice chides, and I don’t bother turning around to confirm it’s my old friend Jonathan.

He’s in Boston now, a partner in an architecture firm that specializes in historical preservation. He’s not the only ghost from my past to re-enter my life as of late. It seems everyone has convened in Boston for the time being. Even Emelia, the half-sister I used to despise so much in my youth, is in the city, working at Jonathan’s firm. I’ve come to see she’s not the monster I made her out to be. She’s even friends with Alexander. I spotted her here tonight at the party. I could have gone over to talk to her, but brokering peace with my past will have to wait.