Dorsey had struggled so much to find his place in his parents’ world, and places like Merrytown threatened that. Merrytown, which everyone stubbornly pronounced Merydon, was a laughable misnomer for the resentment, mistrust, and pride that haunted these few dark blocks of DC. It reminded him that this would be much closer to his actual life had he not gotten a golden ticket out of it. But his job tonight was to smile while he picked the pockets of the desperately poor. To make them at ease with their ultimate dislocation. The contrast with what his philanthropist mother would think of this and what his industrialist father would expect of him warred inside him. But in the end, his late father’s expectations and the Fitzgerald family legacy always won out. His eyes wandered around the room. Where had that woman gone?

He had burned them. That son of a bitch had burned them all.

There was too much on the line. Her community was here, and they were—mostly because of her mouth—expecting a show. There had to be some way to salvage this.

She weaved her way out of the kitchen only to be nearly mowed down by a small orchestra. Teens from the local high school rushed past her, fixing reeds and fingering keys. Across the line of bustling students, she saw Dorsey Fitzgerald speaking in an animated voice with the only blond man in the room.

Dorsey was seriously attractive. So what? The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. They were just facts, not proof of his goodness. Looks had never been the most interesting thing about a man to Liza. She could cop to his appeal without liking his demeanor. She was an art history minor and prided herself on seeing beauty while still maintaining a critical eye.

Why am I comparing Dorsey to art?

Liza flowed with the trail of band members—she was short enough to blend in—and moved with the students until she was directly behind the two men, partially obscured by a sturdy white column.

“. . . You have got to be kidding me. Why are you pretending with these people?” Dorsey asked.

“Oh, I’m not pretending. We can’t just take and not give back, Fitzgerald, it’s not sporting. People are scared. They’ve lived here all of their lives, now everything is changing,” the man-boy said.

“This party is not giving back. I don’t see how you can smile and shake hands—”

“Your sister said you’d be conflicted about this,” David said. Liza didn’t think he sounded conflicted at all, simply bored.

“I’m doing what I have to do.”

“Then tell your face, man.”

Dorsey nodded in begrudging agreement. “Well, I would smile too if I were dancing with the only beauty in this place.”

“Now, that’s not very generous. Her sister seems like a lovely woman.”