What I did sickens me, yet if I were in that same situation again, would I act any differently? I can’t say for sure that I would.

Dale crashes into me, jolting me back to the present. I stagger sideways and topple onto a table with him on top of me. Woozy from the whiskey, I’m slow to react. Brent pulls Dale off by the hood of his jacket. There’s a ripping sound.

Dale swears and shoves Brent up against the fireplace. “All right, I’m going to ask. Did you sleep with my wife?”

Dale may have lost the Viking look, but he’s still acting like one. I hold my breath. Say no, Brent, even if you did, or he’ll smash you.

“No,” Brent says.

Dale narrows his eyes and turns back to Curtis. “As for you, your sister was out of control. I reckon you killed her. Admit it. You were sick of her, just like the rest of us.”

Curtis lets another punch fly. Dale dodges and Curtis’s fist glances off his shoulder. There are little red circles on Curtis’s cheeks. I’ve never seen him lose it like this.

His anger gets me thinking. Maybe Saskia’s death wasn’t my fault after all. Did he hit her? Is that how she died? It’s hard to imagine because he was so protective of her, but maybe he snapped. Everyone has a breaking point. Even Curtis.

Curtis and Dale are ducking and weaving; chairs and glasses crash to the floor.

Heather wraps her head in her hands. “Stop!”

Brent grips Dale’s shoulder. “Cool it.”

And Dale punches him in the gut. This is turning into an all-out brawl, and I remember only too clearly what happened the last time these guys brawled.

I have to stop this before someone gets hurt, but what do I do? It’s not like we can call the police.

Curtis approaches Dale again. Hoping he won’t attack me instead, I step in front of him. “Stop.”

Curtis’s body heaves against mine.

“The Icebreaker,” I say. “It’s like someone was trying to stir up a fight. Don’t give it to them.”

Curtis’s jaw is clenched, his eyes furious. It’s a standoff for a few tense seconds, until he grudgingly nods. With a pointed look at Dale, he returns to his chair. Still muttering, Dale takes his seat. Brent and I sit, too. We straighten clothes and get our breath back.

“We need to discuss who could have written those secrets,” I say. “Because whoever it was really knows us.”

“Now, hang on—” Brent says.

“I’m not saying it’s all true,” I say. “I meant—”