“We’re looked down on, laughed at, the people who were begging my dad to take them on as patients six months ago now cross to the other side of the street when he walks by. And we aren’t rich anymore, at least not by Serenity Point standards, but we’re definitely not broke. Which is convenient because”—smiling—“Harvard is seriously expensive.”

“That’s good,” Alice said, not bothering to smile back. “Still, though, I think something’s troubling you. Something apart from your family situation, I mean.”

He looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

She took a deep breath, let the breath out, then said it: “Camilla.” It’s like she’d broken down her internal resistance to speaking the name out loud when she spoke it out loud to Luz, and now she wanted to speak it out loud again. It pained her to do so, but, at a deeper level, it soothed her, too.

“Camilla?” he repeated.

Her heart pounding at her own daring, Alice said, “She’s dead and you’re still in love with her.”

The expression on his face was odd, half-angry, half she didn’t know what. “That’s not true.”

“It is true,” Alice said, nearly in tears. “Why else would you act the way you act, sit here every night staring out at”—unable to say the words, so flinging her arm in the direction of Greeves Bridge—“that? You think of nothing but her. And the only reason I get to be here with you is because I remind you of her. And not even that very much.”

Tommy was quiet for a long time. The skin on his face looked too tight, and his eyes were strained and miserable. When he finally spoke, he spoke slowly, obviously choosing his words very, very carefully. “I do think about Camilla a lot, you’re right. But that’s because I feel guilty about her, not because I love her. I don’t. Not anymore. The truth is, I’m not sure if I ever did.”

“Of course you did,” Alice said, almost indignant. “She was your best childhood friend and then your girlfriend. You were made for each other. Cybill told me. And the way your face looked in that picture . . .”

His brow crimped in confusion. “What picture?”

“The one hanging in the dining room of the club.” She tried to jog his memory when he continued to regard her blankly: “You and Camilla had just won some kind of tennis match? You were being handed a trophy? You had on a stripey shirt and your arm was around her?”