In spite of her personal feelings for Richard, which Alice would characterize as undecided leaning toward negative, she was sorry for him, she really was. But she didn’t know how to express her sympathy. The loss he suffered was so great—so devastatingly, monstrously, unimaginably great—that maybe there were no words to express her sympathy, and clearly he didn’t want her to. It’s not as if he’d ever broached the topic with her. No, it was Maggie who had told her and Charlie his sad story, using a hushed voice that warned the girls off asking any questions at the end or holding out hope for further discussion. The subject was introduced, and then, just like that, it was closed. The sick part was, all this silence, the heavy off-limits vibe surrounding Martha’s and Camilla’s deaths, only made Alice more curious.

Richard handed his keys to the smiling valet, and they all exited the car. They’d just started for the clubhouse when Charlie said, “Oops, I left my bag in the backseat. Don’t want to forget that. It has my fake ID in it.” Off Richard’s look: “Just kidding. Not about having a fake ID, but about using a fake ID. Tonight, anyway.”

As Charlie opened the door and leaned in, her short skirt rode up her thighs, slim but rounded and muscular at the same time. Her camisole rode up, too, exposing the angel’s wing inked on her lower back. Alice hated that tattoo. Had begged Charlie not to get it on the grounds that it was tacky and low-rent and that she’d regret it later, but Alice couldn’t stand to have anyone looking at her sister the way Richard was looking at her now.

Alice wanted to step between them, block Richard’s view. It was too late, though.

Richard said to Charlie, his mouth tight, “Did you bring a jacket?”

Charlie looked at him over her shoulder, surprised. “A jacket? No.”

Hastily, Maggie slipped out of hers. “Here you go, sweetheart. It’ll look cute with the skirt you’re wearing.”

Charlie, still confused, said, “No thanks, mom.”

“Charlotte,” Richard said. “I’d like it if you’d put it on.”

Recognition dawned on Charlie’s face as Richard stared her down. She stared him down right back.

Alice looked on as the silence stretched. There was all this spit in her mouth but she couldn’t swallow, could barely breathe. Her sister was the only truly fearless person she knew, which made Alice, weirdly, afraid for her.

Finally Charlie’s lips flattened into a smirk. “Well, Dick,” she said (Charlie hated, hated, being called by her given name), “I’d like not to die of heat stroke. It’s June, a little too warm for the layered look.”

“Just tie it around your waist, honey,” Maggie said.