Look, there’s the tray of shrimp canapés. There’s the French macaron tower. Here’s the cocktail napkin with the host’s monogram. Observe: the same string café lights that Cricket used to have. And the guests, in attendance—people of influence, puffed, confident, assured that whatever they were talking about was of the utmost importance. I’d never been here before, of course, yet I felt eerily trapped within distorted memories of my father, my life, both of which, it turned out, were just as strange to me as this house.

When it was time for dinner, I trailed Bo passively through the buffet line. I tonged mixed greens onto my plate, not really seeing what I was collecting. I overdid it on the chicken and, for some reason, decided to pour Thousand Island dressing, which I hated, over everything. I was too focused on this question: Why was it my tuition that launched this whole disaster? I couldn’t help but feel deeply, newly culpable.

Bo and I ate our plates of chicken and greens on the steps of the main house, and watched as Wallis, paying no attention to the party around her, lingered near the bar, restless, phone in hand, eyes on her nude pumps.

“Wallis is preoccupied,” Bo observed, wiping his fingers on his napkin. Then: “So are you.”

Bo was one of the most perceptive people I knew, and I wasn’t that good of an actor. “I know.” I set my plate down beside me and ran my hand over my face. “Sorry.”

Bo’s smile was wan. “I think I understand why.” I recoiled, immediately wondering, irrational as it was, if he knew. But: “It’s Darley, isn’t it? You’re both—what? Hoping he’s here? That you’ll see him?”

“Wallis wants to,” I said, thankful that Bo, to the best of my knowledge, was still without psychic powers. The Blake news I could handle. “But he isn’t being responsive.”

Bo appeared to be looking for the right words. “I don’t get it,” he muttered.

“I have a theory about Blake Darley,” I said. “I was up with your mother and Aunt Jane last night, by the way.”

“Did they spill family secrets?” Bo asked, offering me his last slice of corn bread. “Judging from your expression, this isn’t about Cousin Marcus, who claims to cure cancer with homemade vitamins.”

“Your mother has heard a rumor that Blake will run for his mother’s seat.” I split the corn bread in half so we could both enjoy it. “After she’s confirmed and sworn in.” It felt good to get this burden, at least, off my shoulders.

Bo’s eyes widened. “I’ll send around a few texts,” he said. Like me, he seemed concerned for her. Unlike me, he was noticeably calm. “By the end of the day we might have some answers.”