The dining room was even more intimidating than the foyer. A table that could seat sixteen, set for six. Crystal glasses. China plates with gold trim. More forks than any human being could possibly need.

I met the rest of the family in quick succession.

Randall Whitmore, Graham’s father, was a quiet man with observant eyes. He shook my hand, said, “Nice to meet you,” in a way that seemed genuine, and then retreated into silence. I got the sense he saw everything but said nothing.

Sloan Whitmore, Graham’s 29-year-old sister, looked at me like I was an invasive species. She was overdressed, over-made-up, and underimpressed. She called herself a lifestyle influencer and had 12,000 followers, most of whom I suspected were bots.

When she saw Rosie, she wrinkled her nose. “Oh, you brought the baby.”

She said it the way you’d say, You brought the cockroach. Or, You brought the tax auditor.

And then there was Nana June—Graham’s grandmother on his father’s side—78 years old, sitting at the end of the table like a queen surveying her kingdom. She didn’t say much at first, but her eyes were sharp. She watched everything with the intensity of someone keeping score.

Dinner began with Patricia conducting an interrogation disguised as polite conversation.

“So, Bethany,” she said, “tell us about yourself. What do you do?”

I had rehearsed this. “I work part-time at a dental office. Paperwork mostly. Filing, scheduling, that kind of thing.”

Patricia’s lip twitched. “Part-time?”

Continued on the next page