“Any evidence of Gretchen killing that young woman on your island was obliterated by your landscape crew this morning,” Henry shouted at Leo.

Claire crossed her legs tightly and tried to look tough.

“They clean the grounds after every event,” Leo shouted back. “Jack would do a lot of things, but he would never do anything to intentionally protect Gretchen Lowell.”

She really had to pee now. Claire clenched her knees together and jiggled her legs up and down.

Henry was asking Leo about the video footage, whether it had all been turned over, and Leo was saying he didn’t know, and both of them were posturing. Men. At this rate, they’d be another half hour.

The naked witch writhed and gyrated onstage.

Claire stood up and Henry and Leo both looked at her with startled expressions.

Claire put her hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I have to,” she yelled, “you know.”

Henry nodded, and Claire turned away from the table and started scanning for restroom signs. She came up with nothing. It was too crowded, and streamers hung everywhere, covering everything. The club had servers—she’d seen a few women in short shorts and Dancin’ Bare tank tops, but she didn’t see any of them now. So she decided to head for the bar to ask a bartender where the hell the toilets were. She walked sideways through the crowd, most of whom were watching a nun disrobe on the main stage. A man covered in blue body paint and naked except for what looked like a diaper stepped in front of her, blocking her path. He held out a clear plastic condiment to-go container filled with a neon-green gelatin.

“Jell-O shot?” he shouted.

Claire pointed down to her belly. “I’m pregnant, dickwad.”

“They’re lime!” he shouted.

Claire didn’t have time for this. People didn’t understand what it was like, having to pee like that. She stepped on the guy’s bare blue foot and squeezed past him as he doubled up in pain. She was elbowing around a couple of dirty-dancing cowboys when she finally saw a sign on the wall with an arrow pointing to restrooms. She was sweating a little now—she had to pee so bad. She made her way hurriedly out of the crowd and followed the arrow down a hallway lit entirely with red light like a darkroom until she came to a door with a female silhouette sign on it. Someone had drawn boobs and pubic hair on the silhouette with a black Sharpie.

Claire threw open the door, relieved to find the room unoccupied. The bathroom was dimly lit, which was probably a blessing. The walls were painted black. A sink in a vanity faced two stalls. Claire scrambled into one of the stalls, and then saw what was in the toilet and backed out and into the other stall. She didn’t have to pee that badly.