We’d entered a sweeping open space in the way of a grand foyer, complete with a wrought-iron balcony over our heads—I guessed so people could gaze patronizingly upon visitors from the great heights of the second floor—cream marbled flooring and a chandelier dripping crystals from the impossibly high ceiling. I bent my neck at an angle that was too close to ninety degrees to be safe, but right now my neck muscles had to take a backseat to taking all of this in. When we crossed into the hallway, my shoes slipped on the marbled floors, and I adjusted my pace to keep control. The last thing I needed was to go careening off track and collide with a mahogany desk or priceless Ming dynasty vase.

Brougham walked slightly ahead of me, making no real effort to match my slower speed. It was almost like he was trying to hurry me through the house. Probably to protect the vases, in all fairness.

The first indication we weren’t alone was the clacking of heels against marble, an extra percussion element to Brougham’s and my already out-of-sync footsteps. A woman sauntered into the hall ahead of us, through an archway to our left, in a cloud of French perfume. She was confident, she was sleek, and, unless I was reading her face entirely wrong, she was irritated to see us.

Mrs. Brougham, I assumed.

She looked something like the female Snapchat filter version of her son. Slender and fine boned, she shared his protruding navy-blue eyes and thick, chocolate-brown hair, although hers had subtle, warm highlights through the layers. She was dressed in an outfit that by all means should’ve looked completely uncoordinated, but on her looked like it came straight out of a Vogue streetwear editorial. She’d tucked a crisp white T-shirt into wide-legged pants made out of a black pleather kind of material, paired with black kitten heels and a black woven bracelet.

Brougham came to an abrupt halt, and I copied him. His mother surveyed him with a flat look, and narrowed her eyes. “Alexander, your father will be working late again,” she said to Brougham without even acknowledging me, “so I have a friend over. We’ll be in the renovated wing. Don’t bother us unless it’s an emergency.”

Brougham didn’t seem surprised at his mother’s hostility. “Okay.”

“If he tells you he’s coming home early, text me.”

“Okay.”

They faced each other down, and I felt a weird sort of chill. It was obvious I was missing something between them, but for the life of me I couldn’t pinpoint what. All I knew for sure was that the vibe was extremely uncomfortable, and I wanted to get out of there, pronto.