My fantasy falls as quick as a curtain at a play as my attention snaps to a man. He’s a face in focus in the middle of a blurry crowd. He’s smiling, holding a crystal glass of red wine, and wearing a wrinkled suit. He’s deep in conversation with another middle-aged man, and I pray he stays distracted.

“Shit,” I whisper.

Oliver’s eyes go wide with fear, and the moment between us is snapped like a fraying thread.

“What is it?” he asks. His hand is still steady on my back. We have to keep dancing as to not draw attention to ourselves.

“My father. Two o’clock. Brown hair. Talking to the white-haired man in the pinstripes.”

Oliver searches the crowd, but I can tell when he finds him by the way his face crumples. “He looks like Will.”

“I know.”

“So what do we do?”

“Pray he doesn’t see us. Get upstairs as quickly as possible.”

Just then, Finn comes into view, crossing the ballroom alone. It is a relief not to see Maxine by his side. My father has met Maxine, and it would only be polite for him to stop her and say hello.

But Finn is blessedly alone. He crosses so near my father they could reach out and touch. But neither pays the other much mind. And why would they? Finn has no idea it’s my father, and my father has no idea he’s breathing the same air as the boy who killed his son.

I hate and pity them both in such different, confusing ways.

The orchestra lowers their bows, the waltz ends, and Oliver grabs my hand and tugs me toward the grand staircase that leads to the second floor. Lena and Pascal should already be upstairs. Maxine and Finn should follow soon after. But if Finn was alone, where is Maxine? Uneasiness takes root in my throat, slippery and sick.

My foot is on the first step when Finn rushes by us, pulling Maxine by the hand. Gala attendees must assume they are lovers looking for a dark corner, or particularly enthusiastic art lovers looking for the galleries, but I know it means something has gone wrong.

It’s imperative Oliver and I remain casual. We can’t turn back now that we’re already on the stairs. It would mean facing the whole of the room, letting them get a good look at our faces, a young unmarried couple opening themselves up for the gossip of the rich and bored. We need to remain as invisible as possible, so slowly, we climb.

At the very top of the stairs, we pause and tilt our heads up to the statue on the landing. Winged Victory. Carved from cream-colored stone, radiant and broad-shouldered and headless, she takes my breath away. I try to summon some of the bravery imbued in the wings that stretch proudly behind her.