Angie flicked a glance toward Markus, who was, after all, one of Patty-Cake’s numerous blood relatives. She said, “The monitor was sent express overnight. It should be here tomorrow morning if not this afternoon.”

“The sisterhood would be proud of Patty-Cake,” Tony said, ignoring the change in subject.

“Which is a good thing,” Angie said more loudly. “Because it’s going to take us days and days to catch up with the screening.”

“What sisterhood?” Markus asked.

“The High Holy Sisterhood of Administrative Assistants,” Rivera said, sending Angie a Give it up shrug. “The source of all true power.”

“And staplers,” Tony added. “If there had been a dozen of the sisterhood around during the Civil War, we’d all be whistling ‘Dixie.’”

“Don’t call it that,” Angie said. “Some people take offense.”

“They do?” Tony said, and craned his head around to Markus. “Hey, are you offended if I say the words ‘Civil War’?”

“Not me, but plenty are,” Markus said. He had been organizing newspaper clippings, and there was a smudge of ink on his cheek, which made him look especially young. He said, “Try calling it the War Between the States, that’s pretty neutral.”

“Then by all means,” Tony said with a royal wave of one hand. He was in an excellent mood, which probably meant he had not spent the night alone. Angie tried to remember when he had left the Jubilee and who had been with him, but the Liars had monopolized her attention from the second they won her picnic basket and company at supper. She had been so busy with them that she hadn’t even seen John go, nor had she heard from him last night. For which, she was sure, there must be a very good explanation.

She stretched out on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position, and finally sat up to dig beneath the cushions. From the depths she retrieved a shoe, the cell phone Tony had lost days ago, a half-eaten packet of crackers, a DVD case, and a bright purple plaid bra, 38DD, which she threw at Tony’s head, where it hung, one cup over each ear.

“Rakish,” Rivera said. “A fashion gamble, but I think it’s working.”

Markus barked a laugh, and then dropped his head and hid his mouth behind one hand.

“Tony,” Angie said, trying to sound stern, “the editing suite is not your personal clubhouse.”

“Why not?” Tony pulled the bra off his head and sniffed it with his nose wrinkled. “Bathroom, shower, microwave, television, a couch to sleep on, and every bit of hardware and software the geekish heart beneath this oh-so-debonair exterior has ever lusted after. Best of all, my mother doesn’t have the phone number here and there’s no cell phone reception.”