Scotty and Alex were yin and yang, dark and light—except they didn’t complement each other, didn’t fit neatly and seamlessly together to make a whole. Instead they were opposites that repelled rather than attracted. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, the responsible son. The stoic eldest child, stepping up to the plate to help his father at the newspaper, majoring in journalism at Columbia and eventually taking Clay’s place as publisher, knowing his father never wanted the job. Alex was flighty, mercurial, blond and fair-skinned, frivolous, carefree. Spending money she didn’t have and marrying men she quickly tired of. A career in New York as a writer for the now-defunct Village Voice after studying English lit at Brown. A writer of plays and poetry, her latest project was a cathartic tell-all memoir—if rumors were to be believed—that the family managed to make sure didn’t see the light of day. Instead she was brought back to D.C.—thanks to Prescott—as co-publisher of the Washington Tribune alongside her brother. The Avery family version of rehab, meant to help her settle down and keep her close to home. It hadn’t taken long before the fireworks between her and Scotty started and people began using words like dysfunctional and toxic to describe the working environment at the Trib.

“That’s enough, you two,” Clayton admonished them in a sharp voice. “Stop squabbling and show some respect.”

“We should go,” I said to Quinn. “We don’t belong here.”

A shocked silence from the wine cellar followed my remarks and then a murmured conversation. Quinn and I exchanged looks. My voice had carried; they had forgotten about us standing outside the door, unintentionally overhearing their vitriol and that argument.

Quick footsteps and Clayton appeared in the doorway. “Lucie, Quinn—sorry, we didn’t realize you were still here. Please join us for a moment. There are a couple of things we’d like to discuss with you.”

“Of course.”

Quinn and I exchanged knowing glances and followed Clayton into the wine cellar.

The rest of them were no longer standing next to Prescott’s body, which had been moved to the sofa; his face now respectfully covered by Scotty’s blazer. They had migrated to the bar where Scotty had opened a bottle of red and was pouring it into wineglasses. Cumulatively this afternoon we had all probably drunk enough to float an ocean liner. More alcohol in such a volatile atmosphere seemed like it might be tossing a match into a tinderbox—but who was I to say?

Scotty held up the bottle. “You’ll have some, Lucie and Quinn, won’t you? In memoriam? Bobby, Win, you, too?”

It was hard to say no.

“Dad.” Scotty turned to Clayton. “You should give the toast.”

Clayton raised his glass. “To Prescott Warren Avery, who lived a long and full life. May you now be with those you loved most—Rose, Miranda, and Tommy. God bless.”