Melody, the crazy paralegal, had accepted a payoff. But Natalie wouldn’t. She hadn’t gone to these lengths for money. It was never about that for her. Natalie was here to hurt him. To fuck up his daughter. To ruin his marriage. His chest constricted menacingly. If he had a heart attack right then, he would welcome it.

Violet was scurrying toward the house, chasing after the jilted Fern. The horde of weirdos was buzzing about the love triangle in their midst. God, if they only knew it was a quadrangle. Celeste leaned in to his ear. “I’ll go in and check on the girls.”

“Don’t,” he said. He didn’t want to be left alone with Natalie. “Let them work it out themselves.”

But his wife was already jogging toward the house. He’d never been able to control her. A server in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt was headed their way with a fresh tray of appetizers. The teens swarmed around the offering—faux chicken drumsticks—leaving him and Natalie standing alone.

“What are you doing here?” he kept his voice soft, his tone casual. The freaks were too busy stuffing their faces with the food he’d paid for to listen in. But just in case . . .

“Violet invited me,” she said, matching his frequency. “We’ve become friends.”

“That’s quite a coincidence.”

“Not really.”

He heard the threat in her voice, but he knew how to disarm her.

“I’ve been worried about you,” he whispered. “How have you been?”

“Not good,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry to show up here. I know it’s fucked-up. But . . . why did you lie to me? I just . . . I can’t . . .”

She was going to fall apart right here, right now. Maybe he could attribute it to the Fern fiasco, if Natalie would play along. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “We’ll find someplace to talk.”

Fern was stalking back toward them now, trailed by Violet and Celeste. The light-haired girl’s eyes were red from crying, but she looked calm, almost dazed. She passed by them and headed straight to the bar. Within moments, she had returned, a glass of punch in her hand.

“Fuck you, whore.” She threw the red drink in Natalie’s face.

“Jesus Christ!” Gabe cried.

“Oh my god!” his daughter shrieked.

The partygoers erupted in horrified delight. But Natalie said nothing. She stood stock-still, cranberry juice, ginger ale, and vodka dripping down her face. Her white T-shirt was stained red, looking uncomfortably like blood. Gabe felt an inappropriate surge of protectiveness toward her, a twisted desire to shove pasty Fern into the pool.

Predictably, Celeste took control of the situation. “Fern, go to my car. I’m taking you home.” The girl sniveled but didn’t dare talk back to his authoritative wife. Celeste took Violet by the shoulders then. “Don’t let her ruin this for you. Stay with your friends, and I’ll be back in half an hour.” And then, Celeste turned to Gabe.