He’d dated our sister, Clare, in high school. They’d been crazy about each other; had volatile, exciting arguments; and maybe broken a law or two. When Clare’s body was found, the cops and press focused a great deal of attention on Kurt initially. He had been Clare’s boyfriend, and when the medical examiner swabbed Clare’s cervix, they found his DNA. No vaginal bruising, no marks on her body beyond the discoloration on her neck. Witnesses noted Kurt and Clare had had a heated fight at the New Year’s Eve party where she’d last been seen. Some said she’d stormed off. Others said he’d left her. Armed with scattered bits of truth, many media commentators had run stories—beginning with “that in all likelihood” or “a source suggested”—that Kurt had tracked Clare down and killed her.

The media and police pressure had gotten so bad that Kurt had fled Richmond to finish up high school in North Carolina. When he returned nearly a year later, his father was days away from dying of ALS. He’d lost a year with his father, and by then most had forgotten Clare’s name except for the occasional reporter drumming up an anniversary piece. One year. Five years. Ten. Thirteen was too odd a number for a story, but maybe fifteen would work.

Kurt’s six-foot-one running back’s frame had filled out with muscle in the last dozen years, and the ink-black, collar-length hair that once swept recklessly over his forehead was cut short and silvering very slightly. His jaw was still strong, and the nose broken in a fight continued to add interest to a too-perfect face. Black blazer, white button-down shirt, faded jeans, and boots that he’d worn in high school. Gray-green eyes bore down on me.

Grinning, he drew me into an embrace that smelled of Old Spice aftershave, the brand he’d once mocked because his father wore it. “You look terrific, Marisa.”

How had Brit convinced him to come to this party? We were hardly a blast from the past he wanted to remember.

As he wrapped me in his arms, my chest tightened, and my heart kicked up a beat. But I held steady and drew back slowly, as if I were fine. It wouldn’t do to ruin this party that Brit clearly had taken a great deal of time to plan. “You’re a terrific surprise, Kurt. It’s been way too long.”

He regarded my hair. “Thirteen years.”

“A life,” I said.

“I’ve been tracking your bridal-photography business, MIS Images,” he said. “Doing pretty well.”

“It’s growing slow and steady.”

“Better than that. Your photography has been in a few national online trade publications. You make the average wedding portrait look artistic and different.”