“I thought it was the other way around. I thought Miller was the aggressor and the kid was defending himself.”

“I just remember hearing the cabin was drenched in blood, like when the elevator doors open in The Shining.”

Whoever had brought the statue to the Secret Santa—was this part of their plan? Was this another phase of their torture? Bobby Alpine had been the one to first mention it. But would he reveal himself so blatantly?

“The only one who made it out of that travesty alive was Claudine and Henry,” Steve said.

Claudine looked at Henry. He had a glass of something brown in his hand. How easy, how weak of him. That stupid bartender. She told him not to let Henry drink. She watched him tilt the glass all the way back, swallow the liquid in one gulp, and head back for a refill. Well, forget counting on him.

She worried her silence was incriminating. She remembered what she had told Henry: Outplay the player.

“Better than alive,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe how cheap we were able to get this land. Everyone was scared off by the murders. Developers never thought anyone would want to live on a property with such a sordid history. But this is the American West. Show me a piece of land that hasn’t had blood spilled on it. Do you know how many bodies are buried in these mountains? Between the Utes and the miners, this entire state is a graveyard.”

“A graveyard with a very expensive lift ticket.” Good, if she let Steve talk long enough he was bound to embarrass himself like this poor, tasteless joke that fell flat.

“It’s true,” Kevin said as he selected a gift from the table. “So many merciless stories.”

“Very true,” Jerry said.

“Henry and I knew that people have short memories. Eventually they’d be willing to overlook what happened here for the sake of the view. And we were right. When we sold the house to the Lions, we made back twenty times our original investment. What’s the most you ever profited from a sale, Steve?”

She took a sip from her glass. Kevin and Jerry were jumping up and down, Kevin having unwrapped front-row seats and backstage passes to Zara’s MGM show next fall. The celebration didn’t last long, because Steve’s turn was next and he took them.

“Give those back to Kevin.” Henry’s voice was loud. But it was too late to stop him. “I’m sorry—or actually I’m not sorry. Steve, you were not invited here. Look around this room, every person, every guest, received something called an invitation. Do you know what that means? You think everything is yours. Everything is not yours. Do you hear me? Can you understand that?”