Scarlett lay on her bed, staring at the yellowing spot on the ceiling that seemed like it was more over her bed than it ever was Lola’s. She could move to Lola’s bed now, if she wanted. Get out from under the spot.

No. It would always be Lola’s bed. Her spot was here, by the window. That was the way the world was, and how it should remain.

Next door, someone was taking a long shower. Lola would be here soon to dress. She was out at a salon getting her hair, nails, and makeup done. Scarlett had been offered an invitation—a whole morning at one of the nicest spas in town, eating mini brownies and having people apply things to her. She had turned it down to wallow in her bed and stare at the spot on the ceiling.

It occurred to her that she should probably go down the hall and make sure Marlene was dressed. She knew her mom would have already done this, but it seemed big sisterly, and now she was kind of the big sister of the house. That was an unwelcome promotion, a fancy new title with no benefits, just more work.

Marlene was sitting on her bed. She had already stuffed herself into her dress, even though they had about two hours before they had to go. She was stabbing at her hair with a brush.

“It’s pretty,” Scarlett said.

It was very pretty. It also made Marlene look very demure, which she probably hated. Ideally, Marlene probably wanted an outfit that had a special holder for a gun.

“It itches” was all she said.

“Do you need help?”

“Does it look it?”

“With your hair?” Scarlett countered.

“No.”

Scarlett returned to the Orchid Suite, noticing that the bathroom was now free. Spencer must have been getting ready. Now it was her turn. Mercifully, there was some hot water left for her, and she used it all, until it ran to freezing, probably a half hour. When she returned to her room wrapped in a huge towel, Lola was there. Even on the worst of days, Lola looked better than 90 percent of the population. Today, her hair was exquisite, but her makeup was too heavy, and it made her look much older than she was. She was removing it with a cloth. Lola had been one of the best makeup artists at Henri Bendel. Scarlett was surprised she’d let anyone else touch her face.

“I should have known better,” she said. “I’m just going to take it all off and improvise. Can I use your makeup? I don’t have mine with me.”

Scarlett silently passed the bag over from her dresser.

“How are you?” Lola asked, working at her cheek in slow, careful circles.

Scarlett shrugged.

“Your phone was ringing while you were in the shower.”