“Not much. Their names and that they were killed in a plane crash.”

“You never asked for more?”

“I asked once. Mom wouldn’t talk to me for a week. It took two weeks before she’d meet my eyes. Dad said the question made her feel like she wasn’t enough. I dropped it. My birth parents were dead. It didn’t matter.” I hold my breath, wait for Lucas to ask, Have your biological parents’ spirits ever come forward? Have you searched for them, on the other side? He doesn’t. Just then a little earthquake, the kind that happens frequently in LA, sloshes the water in my glass on the coffee table.

“So who the heck is this guy?”

I lean back and bump my head against the wall. “After I kicked him out, I did a search. He’s written for the L.A. Times the past seven years. Before that, he wrote for The Oregonian. Worked his way up from Arts and Leisure to Politics to Features.”

“The Oregonian?”

“It’s the big newspaper in Portland. He started there after he graduated from the University of Oregon. He’s not married. Lives in Venice Beach. I haven’t had time to find much else.”

“I’ll hire a private investigator, he’ll be on the payroll tonight. We’ll find out what’s in Thomas Holmes’s closet.”

A black fly with a metallic green body buzzes against the picture window set in the far wall. Beneath the window sits the antique desk I restored. “Why do you think my foster file was so empty?”

“Best guess? They’re understaffed, disorganized. I can try to find out?”

“Don’t bother.” I crawl in front of Moose, curl between his front and back legs. “Lucas, the article will happen, whether or not I agree to an interview.”

“Not if I hire a lawyer, threaten to sue for libel if the paper prints anything about you. We’ll scare the crap out of them.”

“You didn’t see the look on the guy’s face. For some reason this is personal. Victor and Doug are big deals—hundreds of thousands of Twitter followers, bestselling books, and Vegas shows. Thomas’s article will get traction.”

“You don’t know that—”

“They’ll survive but this exposé will destroy my career.” My insides lurch. Then who will I be? “I don’t want this to hurt your reputation. If the story is going to be published, tell Holmes I fooled you, too.”

“Not a chance, Syl.”

There’s a roll of half-finished Tums under the couch. I reach for it, pop two, and chew the lemon-flavored discs into dust. It’s a struggle not to gag.

“Syl?”

“Did you ever read Edgar Allan Poe’s short story ‘The Cask of Amontillado’?”

Lucas exhales. “Maybe in high school.”

“It was one of my mom’s favorites. She loved stories with morals.”

“Remind me?”

“It’s about an Italian noble named Montresor who decides to seek revenge against Fortunato, a man who insulted him thousands of times. Montresor lures Fortunato into a wine cellar set in the catacombs under his palazzo by offering to let him try a rare Amontillado wine. He gets Fortunato drunk, chains him to the wall, and seals the niche, brick by brick, leaving him to die.”