“Are they still waiting for me?” he asks, and I can tell by the curl of his thin lips, how pleased he is about that.

They’re not the only ones waiting on him. Nearby, a couple of girls in lawn chairs are watching me, their eyes darting up when they think I’m not looking. All these women, they’re flocking to him, competing with the others, each of them trying to prove they’re worthy of his attention. There are no other men here but him, and I wonder if this is an audition of sorts, a strange kind of cattle call.

And maybe he wants to screen-test me too, because he won’t stop looking at me. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of meeting yet,” he says, and extends his hand like a gentleman. I don’t take it.

“I’m only passing through,” I say. “We’re looking for someone.”

He scoffs. “Who isn’t?”

The girls from the lawn chairs are standing up now, their willowy figures creeping closer. A few partygoers are climbing out of the pool as well, their faces obscure in the moonlight, and though they dry themselves off with fuzzy towels, everything so cool, so nonchalant, they’re getting nearer, too.

I try to track all of them at once, but there are too many. My chest constricts, and I hold Daisy’s bag a little tighter, gripping the urn inside, and that’s my mistake, because he notices.

“What is that you’ve got there?” he asks, closing the distance between us.

I wrench away. “No,” I say, a word he isn’t used to hearing. Instantly, the crowd goes quiet, and they don’t pretend anymore. They’re all openly watching me now, their eyes faded and unblinking, waiting on a command from him.

But he doesn’t give one. He just shrugs. “All right,” he says, and his voice is all hard edges, cold as steel, jagged as thorns. “I won’t force you.”

With a sneer, he starts to turn away, but I can’t let him go. Not yet.

“One more thing,” I say, and he glances back at me. “Where’s Jane?”

His body heaves a moment. “Who?”

“Your wife,” I say. “Your second wife. Where is she?”

He feigns an innocent look, though it doesn’t suit him at all. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do,” I say, and we hold each other’s gaze for a long time. Too long. He wants to make me uncomfortable, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. I won’t say his name, either, though I know it anyhow.

Edward Fairfax Rochester.