“But he and Diana know each other. He’s not some guy in a dark alley. They have a long, sordid history.”

“Which will work in our favor, eventually. But last night, he and Diana left a party together. At some point after, the cops responded to a 911 call, and carted Billy off. Dad’s down in New Jersey, trying to get him out, but it’s the weekend so no one’s around.”

“Who called 911? Diana?”

“I don’t know. I told you, Dad and I only spoke for a second. He said Billy will be home tonight and wants us both there.”

I hate when Lawrence makes Nate his messenger, but of course I jump. “I just need to figure out my schedule. I have midterms next week.”

I’m up at Yale, taking a refresher class in Statistics and Introduction to Arabic, before I start a six-year PhD program for political science in the fall. No one in my life is happy about this. Last May, when I graduated from Columbia, I was supposed to work at the Stockton-Quinn Foundation, our family’s charitable nonprofit. Instead, I moved to New Haven and applied to grad school. I’ve been living here for six months. I love my coursework. I’m thrilled to be on my own. And yet my family is still waiting for me to give it all up and come home.

“Blow off the exams, Cassie. We’re in crisis. And Thursday is Dad’s birthday.”

“I know it’s his birthday, Nate. But I can’t disappear.”

“For fuck’s sake.” He snorts. “No one is asking you to disappear. Why do you always have to be so dramatic?”

“I don’t know, Nate. Why do you always have to jump all over me?”

My brother gets irritated when I talk about Yale. He’s on the equities desk at Bessemer Trust and has hated his job from day one. The plan was for me to graduate, for him to quit, and for the two of us to join the foundation together. Instead, I took off. But rather than leave Bessemer—which he can do, at any time—he chose to stay. He’s still miserable, but now he blames this on me. Obviously, there’s more to the story than impulsivity (mine) and inertia (his), but rather than discuss it explicitly like adults, we taunt each other with insults that are steeped in resentment (his) and guilt (mine).

“So, what happens next?” I ask.

“Dad’s at the jail with the Bowtie, trying to get answers.”

“He called Burt?”

“I know. The guy can’t handle a bank deposit. How’s he gonna deal with a felony? But it was three o’clock in the morning, and no one else was around. So, for the moment, the Bowtie is our holy savior, shepherd, and redeemer.”