I boil over again as the Wongs also start to slink out. “Wait, you’re not leaving, are you, Billy?” I ask loudly.

He stops. “Me?”

“Don’t you think you, of all people, should stay?”

His eyes are wide. The fear I see in them gives me courage. “You’re an excellent actor,” I go on. “You missed your true calling by becoming a surgeon.”

“Oh my god, Ada, stop,” says Afton, standing up.

“I mean, you’ve got balls, I have to admit,” I continue like I didn’t hear her. “The way you dare to sit here, next to her, when she’s here with my father. You absolute fucking bastard.”

Now everybody at the table is saying the words Ada and stop and don’t. Then, above them all, comes the high, reedy voice of my little sister.

“What’s an affair?” Abby asks. “Why is everyone so upset?”

Shit. I forgot about Abby. I am officially the worst sister in the universe. “I’m sorry.” I glance at Afton, whose face is pale as milk under her tan. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t do it anym—”

“It was me,” Afton says then, loudly and clearly and slowly, like she’s speaking to a person who doesn’t speak English well. She draws herself up to her full height and looks into my eyes. “It. Was. Me.”

I don’t understand.

“It was me you saw that morning,” Afton says. She closes her eyes for a moment, and a myriad of emotions cross her face in quick succession. Anger. Guilt. Relief. Then she takes a deep breath and turns to our parents. “Ada thinks Mom is having an affair, because earlier this week she came back to the hotel room, and she saw me—”

I’m shaking my head. “It couldn’t have been you. I saw—”

“It was me,” she insists fiercely. “Trust me. I was there.”

Now I feel sick for an entirely new reason. “You and Billy Wong?”

“Ew!” Afton exclaims. “Ew, no! No, stupid. Me and Michael.”

Everyone in the group swivels to stare at Michael. He’d almost made it to the door of the restaurant, attempting a half-hearted escape, but at his name he knows he’s caught. He freezes for a second, like maybe if he doesn’t move, we won’t see him.

“Well, son?” pipes up Marjorie. “Was it you?”

He sighs and turns to face us. “I would just like to say that—”

“But it happened Monday morning,” I argue. “Michael wasn’t even here on Monday.”

“He came in late Sunday night,” Billy corrects me gruffly.

“But how would you have known that?” I ask Afton. “How did you even have time to—”