PRESENT DAY

I stare at Heather. “You said your invite was from me.”

She’s crying so hard she can barely speak. “The first one was.”

I’m confused. “The first one?”

Her eye makeup is running down her cheeks in black streaks. I hand her a napkin from a stack on the kitchen counter.

She blows her nose on it and takes a shaky breath. “We got an invite from you but we didn’t want to come back here, so I emailed to say we couldn’t make it. A few days later I got another email.” She fights to compose herself. “From Brent.”

Brent frowns and shakes his head. “No.”

“What did it say exactly?” I ask.

“Be there or I will tell,” Heather says. “Just that.”

Brent shoots her a panicked look.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I know you slept with her.”

Brent’s head jerks my way. His mouth opens. And closes. And opens again. “All right, I slept with her. It was ten years ago, for God’s sake. What does it matter now?” He glances at Curtis and Heather. “But I don’t know anything about this email, I swear.”

Once again, my brain is boggling. So everyone got an invite from me, except me. I got one from Curtis. We all accepted, except Heather. When she declined, she got an invite—or rather a threat—from Brent. Does that mean Brent was behind this weekend all along? Did he invite me and Curtis, making it look like we invited each other? But why?

I feel like I should believe Brent over Heather, but I can’t put aside the look in his eyes in his dorm last night.

“So how do you explain the email?” I say.

Brent rakes his hand through his hair and darts another look at Heather. “Well . . . someone knows we hooked up and used it to blackmail her to come here.”

I want to believe him but I’m just not sure. “Who knew about the two of you?”

“As far as I’m aware, nobody.”

Saskia knew, I think, but I don’t say it. The pain is making me light-headed. I lean against the wall. Several more hours before I can take more ibuprofen.

Heather starts crying again. Brent reaches for her.

She slaps his hand away. “This is your fault!”

“Hey, hey.” Brent tries to calm her down.

Curtis leans against the wall beside me, head tilted back, eyes closed. I can’t tell if he’s thinking or just plain exhausted.

My stomach rumbles. I need to eat something before I pass out. Summoning the last of my energy, I straighten and slop the tuna-tomato mix onto plates. Gordon Ramsay would have a fit—it looks like dog food—but I don’t think anyone here will care.