Claire didn’t even know it had a name besides Jack Reynolds’s island, though now that she thought of it, it probably did.

“I’ve gotta go,” Star said. “I’m on in a minute and I still have to ice my nipples.”

Star didn’t have a watch—Claire wasn’t sure how she knew she was on in a minute—but she seemed certain. Star checked her makeup in the mirror and then stepped back from the sink and drew herself to her full height so that Claire was staring at her nipples, which were the size of raspberries, and looked like they didn’t need any icing at all.

“Tell Archie Sheridan we’re even,” Star said, adjusting her devil horns. Then she unlocked the bathroom door and sashayed out, a red line indented on her ass from where she had perched it against the counter.

Claire was already digging her phone out of her pocket. She needed to find out what Jack Reynolds’s island was called, and she knew just the person who’d have that sort of useless trivia floating around in her brain. The fact that it was the middle of the night made Claire only hesitate for a second before dialing. Susan wouldn’t mind. Susan loved to be part of the action.

*   *   *

Henry had taken Claire’s chair and now sat watching Leo across the table, trying to block out the electronic disco crap that was pounding through all the speakers. The bottle in front of Leo was almost empty. Henry watched as Leo poured the remainder into his glass and drank. Whatever sorrows he had, he was trying hard to drown them. Henry knew that Leo had to act the part, but this was getting dangerous. He leaned forward and put his hand on Leo’s arm. “I think you’ve had enough,” he said. Leo gave him a glassy-eyed smile and Henry shouted it again, to be sure Leo had heard him over the music.

Leo pulled his arm away, lifted his glass to his mouth, and drank.

Henry sat back and crossed his arms. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, coming here. Leo was no help at all. Henry looked around for Claire. Why did women take so long in the bathroom? What did they do in there, exactly?

Henry reached across the table, took the glass out of Leo’s hand, and slugged back the contents. He was doing him a favor, really. Leo was staring forlornly at his now-empty hand and Henry returned the glass to Leo’s palm. The music made the table vibrate. “There’s nothing you can tell me about Lisa Watson or Gretchen Lowell?” Henry asked, shouting. “No information?”