I watch Sarah Morelli hold court, a queen in this particular castle. She’s too austere to be a social butterfly, but it works in this setting—the somberness of Christmas, the scaffolding of religion. People fawn over her elaborate dress, the beautiful decorations. Waiters emerge from the kitchens with trays of mince pies—the pies that Eva worked on.

I’m standing in the ballroom, but I feel a million miles away from these people. I’m still back in that antechamber. Still wrapped around Eva’s sweet, panting body.

Daphne Morelli, Eva’s younger sister, hovers on the other side. She stands with a young blonde I recognize as Haley Constantine, the woman Leo’s with. From the corner of my eye I see Lucian and his lady-love make a quick exit.

I’ve been to a million events like this, but suddenly I feel out of place. It’s not the gala that changes. It’s me. As if the touch of Eva’s lips shifted some small, crucial part of me.

Great.

I stride through the other side of the ballroom, passing a couple making out beneath a heavy garland of mistletoe. It’s darker back here. This leads away from the public wing, into the family spaces. I’ve been here before during intimate dinner parties.

Never upstairs, though.

I climb the wide, sweeping staircase. Deep carpet hides my footsteps.

A worried servant steps out of a door at the end of the hall, holding a first aid kit. Bingo.

“Is he inside?” I ask when he approaches, my voice pleasant.

The man looks nervous. “No one’s supposed to be up here.”

I pull out a few hundreds from my billfold. “I’m a close friend of the family.”

That’s enough to make him hurry away. No loyalty. It doesn’t speak well of how the family treats their employees. But it serves my purpose right now. I enter the room.

“I told you to leave me the fuck alone.” The words are slurred. He was already drunk downstairs. And I’m guessing he’s been drinking steadily since he left.

“You don’t sign my paycheck,” I say, crossing the dark library. I stop at the ice-coated window, looking down at the revelry on the lawn, where a snowball fight has broken out.

Worry. Anger. Resentment. Through the window’s reflection I watch those emotions play over Bryant Morelli’s battered face. He wants to demand that I leave. More than that, he wants to take his rage out on me, but he must know I’d love any excuse to punch him again.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he finally asks, sounding resigned.

“Having a conversation.”

“About what?”

I watch as one of the Morelli cousins, Charles, packs a snowball down hard.

He aims. Fires. It lands in the face of Maise Dunlevy.