Molly Bell is the founder and CEO of Say Cheesed, a cheese board empire—and I don’t use that ridiculous combination of words lightly. Just out of college she started a charcuterie business, boxing up premade boards for Avon ladies’ nights on Long Island and Hamptons-adjacent bachelorette parties that requested their brie in the shape of an uncircumcised dick. Turns out, Amy Schumer had been at one of those bachelorette parties and drunk-posted a video of herself pretending to give the dick-shaped cheese head.

Say Cheesed went superviral. In her first year, Molly made two million dollars selling cheese boards. Beyoncé used her for Blue’s birthday party; Ramona Singer and Bethenny Frankel had a screaming match while standing over Molly’s salami in the shape of a rose; Stanley Tucci called her honey dippers “inventive.”

She designed a Super Bowl–themed board on Rachael Ray’s show. She offered charcuterie basics on Colbert’s Thanksgiving special. She even got invited to Chrissy Teigen’s house to teach charcuterie arranging for her blog.

Seven years after her first Instagram post, Molly has become the most sought-after caterer in New York City, the Hamptons, and Los Angeles. She’s not a chef—her specialty is not cooking. It’s appearance control. Social media. It’s in creating shareable moments through food. At least, that’s what her tagline says. And that’s what the Walkers want. When you know all the most important people in the state, you then become responsible for impressing the most important people in the state.

“Is Graham all right?” Cheryl asks, leaning into me so it is clear who the question is directed toward. As if Molly would think to field a question about my fiancé. “He was acting strange in the kitchen earlier. Jumpy.”

It was clear to me that Graham hadn’t told his mother about what happened last night—the eerie barrage of posters on the edge of the woods. He’d gone to bed so quickly I didn’t even know what he’d done with all the papers he’d ripped down and stuffed into his pockets. It’s possible they’re still in our bedroom, or that he flushed them down the toilet or something. It wasn’t my place to say anything—of course, I didn’t even know about this old case that Graham so quickly dismissed. But I had hoped in the night I’d feel him stirring. I’d pretend to be asleep as he slipped out of bed, into his slippers, and out the door to knock across the hall and tell his brother what he’d found. The person I’d hoped he’d tell. But he slept as soundly as ever.

“He’s just excited,” I say. “Sometimes his excitement materializes as nerves.”