Jules had just started giggling silently, making me catch it too, when another woman arrived, jewel-encrusted and chic—a middle-aged Manhattan heiress I recognized from nearly every music event I’d ever gone to. Before the tide of interest could shift to her, Jules walked us away from the photo line, neither of us turning back while the photographers shouted after us for one more.

An usher held the glass door open. We swept inside and I turned to Jules, allowing myself a giddy breath. One hurdle down.

A crowd stood clustered in the lobby. Gorgeous, cheery, well-rested—one bright red bob in the center, holding court.

The next hurdle.

I headed straight for her.

42.

nora’s face went still when she saw me cut through the crowd, bewilderment lingering in her eyes like she’d been drugged. It wasn’t until a man in a light gray suit turned to me with a jovial, “Anna! It’s been ages,” that I understood why.

Nora laughed, recovering with visible effort. “That’s not Anna, Stephen, it’s her daughter. Christ, you need your vision checked.”

He wasn’t the only one. For the second time, I’d failed to recognize him as Nora’s husband—not that he would be her husband for long. She’d brought him tonight, though. And her smile was brazen.

Nora leaned up for a double air-kiss, which I supplied, beaming along.

She touched my shoulder, face falling. “How is your father?”

I remembered his words. “Better than ever.”

“Oh thank God, we were all so worried!” She touched her chest. “Ruby, I should have realized. I feel sick about it. He hadn’t been himself for weeks, he was beyond anxious, kept throwing out these wild accusations. I should have told someone—warned you about it. Do you forgive me? Please say you forgive me.”

She didn’t know what I’d heard. Or if she had any suspicions, she’d locked them all up in a mental vault. Probably the same place she stored her guilt.

“What sorts of accusations?” I cocked my head, turning toward Stephen to include him in the conversation.

“Oh.” Nora’s chest went red against her blue dress. She laughed. “Everything you can think of, short of alien invasions.”

“That doesn’t sound like Dad.” I watched, silent, as she squirmed.

“I’m . . . so glad you made it tonight. I’m sure Oscar is thrilled. Can I get you a glass of wine?”

Stephen snorted. “Jesus, Nora, she’s seventeen. What’s gotten into you tonight?”

I drifted politely away, working my way back through the crowd. That was enough of that.

Jules stood at the edge of the lobby, picking hors d’oeuvres off a captive waiter’s tray. She turned, delighted, a mini-quiche in one hand and a caviar cone in the other.

I nodded behind us. “Want to come backstage?”