Spencer passed a white wine to Mrs. Clausen. The daughter was not with them. No one was, unless I counted the bartender. I didn’t. He was male. The three of them stepped away and stood in a triangle shape, chatting.

Marshall stared from me to Spencer Shaw’s group with way too many questions rising in his eyes.

I wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed since I’d dosed Spence, but roofies worked fast. He could start reeling and slurring any minute. He already didn’t look good. Sweaty and pale. He took a white linen handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped at his brow.

I was afraid to leave. Maybe something had gone wrong. If the daughter couldn’t get Spencer off alone, would I be blamed?

Marshall said, “Bree, are you okay?”

It shocked me that this conversation with Marshall kept on happening. Life kept on happening. Robert had been brutally taken from me, and yet here, on the green, Spence was clapping Mr. Clausen’s shoulder, a singer was crooning, waiters were passing signature gimlets and snacks. People were eating and gossiping and going to the bathroom and breathing in and out. It was wrong and crazy. I wanted everything to stop. I wanted the daughter to complete her business. I wanted my son.

“I’m fine,” I said.

Marshall said, “Something’s off. Talk to me.”

A female figure turned onto our small path, blocking my view. The light was behind her, making her a curvy silhouette. My heart leaped up into my throat. Was it the daughter, come to shoo me home?

I grabbed Marshall’s arm, saying, “Shhhh,” trying to drag him backward.

“What are you . . . ?” he said.

I let go, ready to run for the entrance, my heart galloping, but the woman called out, “Bree?”

I recognized her voice. It was Gabrielle Baxter.

Gabrielle was not the daughter. She couldn’t be. I’d met her parents at a party. They were black and sophisticated and quite well-off. The old woman I’d seen was white, and she didn’t have a posh, rich-person’s accent. Plus, the mother had told me they’d been unable to get in to see Spence. Gabrielle saw him every day.

“Are you hiding from Gabrielle?” Marshall whispered.

“No.”

As she came to join us, I shifted so I could still see Spence. He was trying to charm the Clausens, leaning in to tell an animated story, but he looked downright sick now. He paused and swayed, and Mr. Clausen looked concerned. God, I hoped I hadn’t overdosed him.

“Hey, Marshall,” Gabrielle said.

“Evening, Gabrielle.” Marshall took his puzzled glance off me to greet her with an easy smile.

She turned to me. “I’ve been looking for you. Janice said you were heading out this way. I’m so glad I caught you.”

“I can’t stay. I’m on the way to meet my Lyft.”