Back in the kitchen, my self clicks into place, reassembled. I glance out the French doors. On the terrace, Eleanor and Nate are sitting side by side. He’s smoking too. In the near darkness, plumes of smoke rise into the air then disappear. Sprawled in his chair, Nate is gesturing emphatically, as if making a point. The tip of his cigarette glows. Next to him, Eleanor’s spine is straight, and her ankles are crossed. Seeing her so self-possessed, I feel a crush of sorrow for Lawrence. He seems lost and alone. Cast out. I can’t remember the last time the family turned against him. In fact, I don’t think I ever have.

I resolve to be nicer. He’s just trying to keep his son safe. “You’re right,” I say gently. “That was mean. I’m sorry. Here.” I push the bowl of berries across the counter. “There’s enough for you.”

* * *

On Wednesday morning, the valet brings my car around. I’ve been home less than a week, but I’ve reached my limit. I’m heading back to New Haven. Classes start after Labor Day, I told my parents, and I need to get ready. They balked, and rightly so. It doesn’t take three weeks to prepare. So, I countered with two visits: for my birthday on August 20 and for one meeting of their choosing with DeFiore. Deal, we agreed.

I’m about to slide into the driver’s seat when I notice Anton and Joey huddled with a third man under the porte cochère. I wouldn’t think twice, except there’s something familiar about the man’s threadbare jacket and the way he slouches forward, as if to seem shorter. When he turns sideways, I see his profile and almost pass out. It’s Greg Haggerty, the fucking detective.

I get into my car, but Haggerty has already spotted me and is speed-walking over. “Ms. Quinn,” he says grandly, grabbing my door before I can close it. “We meet again.”

“What the fuck? Are you following me?”

“What are you gonna do?” He chuckles. “Call the cops?” His face is flushed from the heat, his thin hair pasted to his scalp. Seeing this reminds me of his unannounced appearance in June, our two-hour conversation, his probing questions.

“Seriously,” I ask, hoping I don’t sound as uneasy as I feel. “Why are you at my parents’ house?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not here to see you. Just catching up with old friends.” He waves toward the door, where Anton and Joey were standing. They’re both gone.

“What could you possibly want from them?” I try to swallow, but my throat’s dry as dust. I think about that night in the Bronx. The bar, shadowy inside, neither dark nor light. Fizzy laughter. Fishnet stockings. Garish red lipstick on a starched white collar. Idiots, me and Marcus. It’s like we were trying to get caught.