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With all seriousness, I said, “Food. I need to eat something before I collapse.”

Kain covered his mouth, but it didn’t muffle his snort. His father shook his head, lips pushing together into a tight line. He seemed irritated, except that I sensed that—like Kain—he was trying not to laugh. “Fine. Hawthorne, go get something from the kitchen.”

“What? Why the hell do I have to do it? Send Kain, he’s the one banging her.”

My cheeks were glowing bright enough to help a ship sail safely in heavy fog. I had a counter on my tongue for Hawthorne; no way was I going to let him say something like that without a response.

Kain leaned close to his brother. “You’re right,” he said carefully. “Iamfucking her. And it’s great. But the only one who gets to talk about that is me. Is that clear?”

He didn’t ask it like it was a question.

Hawthorne lifted his chin higher, posturing so that his chest nearly bumped Kain’s. “Little brother, you should know better than to try and tell me what to do.”

Before the intensity could get worse, I stepped forward. “Hey, yoo-hoo.” My arm cut between them, waving rapidly to get their attention. “I can feed myself, no need to break bones over who has to get me a stupid muffin.” I paused, my eyebrows scrunching. “Tell me that therearemuffins.”

Maverick’s laugh shattered the tension. Slapping his thigh once, he swung his chin side to side. “I like her.” I didn’t have a chance to be confusedorflattered; the large man narrowed his joy into flat expectation, all fixed on Hawthorne. “Go get her some damn food. You heard me.”

Through all of this, Costello had managed to blend into the wall he was leaning on. “I’ll do it,” he said. Pushing forward, he moved past all of us in two steps of his long legs. “Not like I’m going to be much help here.”

Kain shoved Hawthorne once, his attention following Costello out the door.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Maverick huffed. “Fine. Sammy, come over here while we wait.” The round table in the den had been covered with photos. He stood next to it eagerly.

He didn’t need to explain anything to me. I knew what they wanted.But will he be here?Could I identify the man who’d spoken to me in this very house, then lurched at me from the shadows of my own home?

The memory lifted prickles on the backs of my arms. Looking over the piles of photos, I ran my fingertips across them. One by one, I pushed together a pile of useless pictures. The ones of Kain and me made me shift side to side; Detective Stapler had shown me copies.

I guess these came from the same photographer.Rapidly, though, it became clear to me that Jameson wasn’t in any of the photos. There were plenty of other servers, just not him.

Hunching over the blurring images, I slid them back and forth frantically.

Why isn’t he here?“I don’t get it,” I whispered to myself.

A shadow darkened the table. Looking up, I saw it was Kain. His eyes were glistening with concern. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“No.” My hair flipped side to side. “Something’s wrong. Why isn’t he in any of these?”

“Maybe you missed him,” Kain said, looking over my head. “You should eat. I can barely think when I get hungry.”

I saw he was looking at Costello, who’d returned with a tray of food. My stomach rumbled, but I wasn’t hungry anymore. Hovering back over the photos, I closed my eyes and racked my brain.Why why why why why?What was I missing?

Cold touched my elbow; I jumped two feet.

“Sorry,” Kain said, offering the glass of orange juice again. “Just drink something and relax a minute.”

Drink something.In a daze, I took the glass, but I didn’t taste it. “Holy shit. That’s what’s wrong.” I whirled, facing all of them. Their eyes were various degrees of doubtful and curious. “Are there photos from the dinner party the night before the wedding?”

Hawthorne glanced at Kain. “Frannie must have taken a bunch with her phone. Mom yelled at her over it a few times.”

Their father jerked his head at the door. “Go get her.”

Hawthorne didn’t argue with that order at all.

“What is it?” Francesca asked, swaying into the room. “Why is Thorne saying you need my phone?”

“Did you take pictures at the party the other night?” I asked, hurrying her way.

Lifting her eyebrows, Fran’s face morphed into delight. “Of course I did. I got some great selfies. Did you want to see them?” Digging into her purse, she yanked out a thick phone that was stuffed inside a glittering white-and-black case. I was pretty sure it had real diamonds on it.