The sprawling main corridor was lined in dark wood and sconce lights and bore the club’s logo in gold on the floor. Tish took a few tentative steps, expecting someone to stop her. Instead, the hallway was empty. She had never been here before, but she remembered people talking about the Kitch the way people on the East Coast talked about Skull and Bones. The faces of members had changed in 125 years, but admission was still by invitation only. To Tish, it felt like a secret society for the privileged. A place built stone by stone on money and tradition.

On her left was a lounge with thick beams lining the ceiling and deep paisley carpet on the floor. A wood fire burned in a brick fireplace, and two leather recliners were carefully placed on either side of the hearth. She was cold from the rain, and she approached the fireplace, putting out her hands to warm them and feeling heat on her dress. As she dripped on the carpet, she noticed an oil painting on the west wall with a familiar face. It was an old man in a three-piece suit. His head was almost bald. He looked tough and prosperous. When she approached the portrait, she saw his name inscribed on a brass plate on the frame.

Randall Stanhope. Former president of the club.

“Can I help you?”

The voice came from behind her. Tish turned and saw a tuxedo-clad attendant in his fifties with a clipped mustache.

“I’m sorry,” Tish said. She squared her shoulders and gave the man an engaging smile. “I’m supposed to be meeting Peter Stanhope here. Can you tell me where to find him?”

She had no meeting scheduled. Peter hadn’t seen her in thirty years. But everyone told her that the Kitch was where he spent most of his evenings. Like his father.

“Mr. Stanhope is in the pool room downstairs,” he told her. “Would you like me to tell him you’re here?”

“No, I’ll just join him there.”

“Do you know the way?” the man asked.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Let me show you.”

The attendant led her downstairs, where the ceilings were lower and the walls felt as if they were closing in. Tish heard raucous male laughter. The pool room was smaller than she expected, with lapis color on the walls and in the checkerboard carpet. Half a dozen men in white shirts and loosened ties gathered around a pool table lined with burgundy felt. They drank scotch from crystal lowball glasses.

The conversation stopped when they saw her. Tish recognized Peter Stanhope immediately. He had a custom pool cue in his hand and was bent over, taking aim on a shot down the table. He was the only man still wearing a suit coat. She was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath and see the overhead lights shining in his silver hair. As she watched, he struck the cue ball with a sharp crack and thunked the solid purple four ball into the far pocket.