Something rattles inside the box. Curtis pushes his hand into the opening at the bottom. A tapping sound. “It’s got a false bottom.” He flips it back over and puts his eye to the long, narrow slot in the top. “Our envelopes are still in here.”

A shocked silence. And we all crowd in to see.

I take the box from Curtis. Halfway down, a layer of wood separates it into two compartments: the top section, where our envelopes are just visible, and the now-empty bottom section. The box hasn’t left the room. Could one of us have put the fake cards in without the others seeing, or was it done in advance?

“Let’s have a look,” Brent says.

I hand the box over. He stomps down hard on it and it splinters.

“What’s the point of that?” Curtis mutters.

He’s right. I bet the secrets we wrote to share have nothing on the ones Heather read.

Heather snatches an envelope from the floor and opens it. “I faint when I see blood.”

Nobody’s listening.

Curtis’s eyes blaze. “Someone set this up. Who was it?”

He gives each of us a long, hard look. We flinch in turn.

I’m struggling to let go of the idea that he invited me here. Partly out of pride. I was flattered—thought it meant something. Hoped it meant something. And if Curtis didn’t organize this reunion, who did?

Brent gets to his feet. “Screw this. I need a real drink.” The door slams behind him.

Heather has little pink spots in her cheeks. I’ll get her alone later and ask her about Brent, because I have to know. If she slept with him, was it before or after she got together with Dale? And before or after Brent was sleeping with me?

Dale steers her to the window and they stand there quietly conferring. Is he asking her about Brent? He must be.

Heather strikes me as unlikely to have orchestrated this. The first three secrets seemed deliberately designed to embarrass her. Or is that just what I’m supposed to think? I sensed a lie earlier, when she told me about her invitation.

I sip my beer, wishing for something stronger—and jump. Curtis is right behind me. Moves like a cat when he wants to, this guy.

“This anything to do with you, Milla?”

“No,” I say. “Of course not.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“Tell me about your invite,” I say. “When did you get it?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“Same here.” It was pretty short notice, but I dropped everything. Because I thought it was from you. We may not have spoken these last ten years, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see him again.

“Was it sent to your phone or your email?” I ask.

“Email.”

“What address was it sent from?” I should have checked earlier, when he and Brent showed me their invites.