By the time we’d paid the bill, the bar was jammed, and bodies packed around our seats. We’d no sooner slipped off our stools than two young women, anxious, like we’d been, for wine and food, filled them again. We worked our way toward the exit, but at the hostess stand I realized Wallis wasn’t by my side anymore. On tiptoes, I searched the room and found her still close to the bar, waylaid by an older man, his face vaguely familiar, lumpy red nose, disheveled hair, his arm snaked around her waist.

“Yes,” I heard her say loudly, defensively, as I pushed back through the crowd. “I’m Wallis Richardson. Who are you?”

He looked at his companions, who had formed themselves in a half-circle around Wallis, and said, “This girl must really be stupid,” then went on to explain how he was a famous publicist—yes, that was how I knew him—and how it would be good to get our side of the story out into the press, how it would be such a savvy move for our family. How he would be so happy to help.

“Sir.” My heart was in my throat as I grabbed for Wallis’s hand. “We need to go. Please, let my sister go.”

He whirled his face toward me, and I had the feeling that a dinner plate was being tossed in my direction. “Relax, ladies,” he said with the confidence of a man extensively practiced in dismissing women. Again, he turned to his companions, who laughed like this was a skit. “I’m just trying to be your friend.”

“I prefer to be strangers.” Wallis twisted her body away from his arm.

“Same,” I agreed, though rather weakly.

“You should be really careful about who you’re telling to fuck off in this town.” He was still laughing as he said this. “You should be grateful that I would even entertain the idea of taking on your family as clients. Everyone knows what you all were into. Come on, you worked for your father.” This last comment was directed toward me.

“You don’t scare me.” Wallis moved toward him and stuck her finger up at his chin. “You don’t know anything about us. You certainly don’t know shit about my sister. So back up, buddy.”

“I don’t want to be your buddy.” He brushed her finger away. “You’re too much of a bitch.”

Other people were noticing. The bartender, even, was staring, swirling a towel around the same glass over and over. There were many eyes on us and not many of them friendly.

“Wallis,” I said, shriveling, “let’s go. Enough. It’s not worth it.”

“As soon as he moves,” said Wallis, “out of my fucking way.”