“Actually.” I watched the servers pull long-stemmed wineglasses off the tables, balancing them between their fingers. “I need a different favor. Cal cut me off.”
The heavy rhythm of Jamie’s breathing stopped. “What does that mean?”
“It means I need to find a cheaper place to stay. Preferably free.”
“I’ll get the production company to pay your hotel bill,” he assured me. “They can book you another room, too. It probably won’t be at the River Estate. I hope that’s okay.”
I looked up at the ornate chandelier in the center of the room, its glass beads twisting slightly in the air-conditioning, raining gentle light that turned everyone soft-edged and golden.
I hoped I knew what I was doing.
“Why don’t I stay with you? Then there’s no additional cost.”
Silence stretched.
“You’re right, it’s weird. I figured we’re friends, but…if it makes you uncomfortable…”
“No,” he said. “Of course you should stay with me.”
***
The next anonymous text directed me to 25 Marion Coates Road, which was within walking distance of Whitney. This time, lights blazed from every window in the Pater house. Even from the street, I could hear faint strains of jazz. The scene was almost civilized.
Inside, it was like I’d stepped through a portal in time. I pushed past men in suits mingling with women in dresses like mine, hemlines swishing below the knee, boat collars lying flat across our throats, demure and polished. The living room buzzed with saxophone notes, murmured conversations, clinking wineglasses. I snagged one from on top of the piano and drank quickly, unnerved by how convivial it was, how much like a college department’s end-of-year salon. Jamie said the house was owned by Cane & Company, a management consulting firm notorious for helping university administrators strip college budgets until they were at maximum profitability. I assumed it was a clue, a link to the real life of whoever lived here. I just had to connect the dots.
I scanned but didn’t spot Nicole, which was strange. She’d said she craved Pater gatherings, so why would she miss one? As my eyes traveled, committing faces to memory, my gaze snagged on the Lieutenant, standing with two men in the corner. He was watching me.
He inclined his head, but the intensity of his stare didn’t falter. My arm throbbed where the brand had singed my skin.
Michael Corbin, I whispered to myself, the secret curling through my mind. It was a talisman of protection, a knife hidden up my sleeve. I smiled back.
Then I turned, almost spilling wine down the front of a man’s shirt. He jumped, and I had an untethered moment of self-flagellation—awkward body, inelegant, unwomanly—before the man boomed a laugh.
“I like wine, young lady, but not enough to wear it.” Glancing down to see his suit was unblemished, the man took a step closer and held out his hand. “You’re new. I came to say hello.”
He was tall, with thick fingers, a stomach that strained his suit jacket, and a shock of white hair. He was easily in his sixties, and his face was red from too much alcohol. I took his hand; he snapped it to his mouth and kissed it.
“Your name?” There was a quality to his voice I had trouble placing.
“Shay Deroy.”
His eyes sparkled. “I can hear the American South in your voice. And your surname is a clunky French bastardization. Du roi, of the king. Let me guess…Louisiana or East Texas.”
I recognized it now. He had a professor’s voice. The slow, self-satisfied cadence of a man who was used to standing in front of a classroom, receiving attention.
“Texas.”