“This one?” Liza repeated. She noticed glances and murmurs. She had been standing with him too long, and people would talk. For the fortieth time in an hour, she regretted inviting all of Southeast to the gala. “No, we’re not even, Dorsey, but let me tell you how we’re going to get even. I’m calling the big boys: city council. They are going to be all over this cheap trick you guys are trying to pull. And don’t think I won’t have the equal-housing folks up your ass.”

“We are revitalizing this neighborhood, inviting business, and paving sidewalks. There are a lot of benefits,” Dorsey countered, but his enthusiasm seemed to sputter. Liza didn’t even think he believed in the snake oil he was peddling.

“Who do you think is going to move into those fancy town houses, huh? The actual community members? Blacks? Latinos? No. The type of people who carry dogs in their purses and stand in line for vegan cupcakes!”

There was a small flick of Dorsey’s eyelashes going up and down her frame, as if taking her in all over again. Dorsey put his hand over his mouth, honest-to-goodness looking like he was trying to hold in a laugh. Is he that callous? Liza pressed on anyway. He was gonna hear it all today.

“And you burned my signs!” Liza shouted. “And”—this was the most offensive by far—“you’re not even a real Latino!” His shoulders shook gently, and Liza was so furious she was sure steam was coming out of her ears.

Just then, a perfectly shellacked news anchor, perhaps smelling blood in the water, signaled for the camera. And for a moment, Dorsey stood there frozen. She saw him collect his breath and plaster on a bright smile. He greeted the man with a firm hand on the shoulder.

“Do you mind if we get a few questions in while we wait for the festivities?” The anchor’s eyes flicked over Liza in a kind of naked appraisal. She saw him do the mental calculus in his head—that a person like her couldn’t be with a man like that. He was wondering if he needed to call security.

“No, not at all. I’d love to answer your questions,” Dorsey said. He lifted his elbow to subtly signal for Liza to leave. Liza blinked prettily into the camera. She was sensing an opportunity.

“Should we get Jennifer Bradley, Mr. Fitzgerald?”

Jennifer must be the woman he came with, the icy blonde who was actually a part of his world. She looked like the villainous stepmother in every Disney movie Liza had watched as a child—the one who wanted to send the heroine off to boarding school as soon as she got her hot dad to fall in love with her.

“They are giving out door prizes to residents near the DJ booth,” the reporter told her.