“Hi, sweetheart,” he said, smiling down at me, though his eyes looked sad and very tired. I could see how deeply Spencer’s death had shaken him. Well, Spence had been family. Problematic family, and not much liked at times, but loved and soaked in history. He was already grieving, and I was here to grieve him more.

“Trey,” I said, and my grave tone was enough to make his smile falter. “It’s worse than you think. Spence was only the start. I have a lot to tell you.”

I felt how still he became, his whole body pausing, even his breath. He didn’t panic or clot the air up with a thousand questions, though. Trey, in a crisis, got quiet and decisive. He said, “Okay. Tell me.”

I led him to the great-room couch and sat him down, and I started at the beginning. It was easier than I’d thought. I’d had practice, telling this story to Marshall and Gabrielle. He didn’t interrupt me until I got to the part where Robert went missing, and then he started asking, “What? What?” Once he was past the shock, he got even quieter, reaching to grip my hands. His were shaking. I told him about my long conversation with the mother. The party, the pills. He was thinking, hard, but I saw no realizations or dawning understanding cross his face. Perhaps he was stuck on the idea of a lawsuit, just as we’d been.

In the light of Robert’s disappearance, Spence’s death became smaller than it would have at any other time. When I got to the Wilkersons, our trip to Gadsden, he spoke again.

“Adam Wilkerson. I’ve heard that name?” He looked down, thinking. And then he had it. “Marshall asked me about him. Earlier today. But I don’t know him, Bree.” There were no tells, no twitches. His gaze on mine was anguished and sincere.

“You do,” I said. “But it was a long time ago.” I’d kept the small framed photo I’d ripped off Adam’s wall. I pulled it out of my purse and showed it to him. He stared down, uncomprehending. Then he blinked and raised his eyes to mine.

“That’s senior year, I think?” he said. “I’m with Spence and Justin Weller, the president. But . . .”

I pointed at Adam Wilkerson. He looked, and then his eyebrows came together, and he shrugged. “That’s Ansel.” As soon as he said the name out loud, his furrowed brow cleared. “Ansel Adams. We called him Ansel because his name was Adam and because he was a pretentious little shit with an old Nikon. Like a shutter stop kind of thing. He was always taking pictures. Even turned his dorm into a darkroom. He only got a bid because he was a legacy.”