“Could mean a whole lot of things. Maybe your friend deleted the pictures and the blog post. She may have decided it was risky to have that out on the Internet before she confirmed the vase’s authenticity. Or, it could mean someone hacked into her account and deleted it. It definitely means you’re going to need to cut me another check.”

I walk back to the table, dread and excitement competing within me. Tiny bread crumbs are trailing in, important nuggets that I don’t yet fully understand. What if Celine’s death has nothing to do with her side profession? What if I’ve been chasing the wrong rabbit this entire time?

I do my best to carry on a normal conversation through the rest of lunch, as my mom asks what plans I have coming up with my organization that she should be aware of, so she doesn’t look like an idiot to the reporters when they ask. Not that she ever does, because no matter what I’m up to, she stands in front of cameras with a smile and makes the same generic statement: “Sparkes Energy is proud of Maggie’s ongoing work in developing countries. We will always support her philanthropic efforts.”

Not until an eggnog cheesecake with two spoons is placed between us—compliments of the chef, because the Waldorf Astoria knows the Sparkes Energy matriarch well—does she inadvertently bring Jace Everett up. “So Clifton Banks mentioned that you’re investing some funds with the New York branch of Governor Everett’s investment firm. Not that it’s his firm anymore, per se.”

I roll my eyes as I slide a sliver of cake into my mouth. Clifton has not yet grasped the concept that “confidential” includes other members of the Sparkes family. The good thing is that it doesn’t sound like she’s going to try to dissuade me. We’ve come a long way over the years. I honestly think that my parents just didn’t know what to do with a child. It wasn’t until I began college that it seemed like we could relate on a human level.

“Yes, I am. Long story . . . ,” that I’ll never try to explain to her, “but I figured I’d diversify. His son came highly recommended.”

“His son?” The sparkle in her eye hints at her curiosity.

“Yes, his son who is arrogant, privileged, and money-hungry.” And paid Celine to have sex with him.

“Some might say the same about you . . .” She pops her fork into her mouth with a knowing smirk. “That’s too bad. I was hoping you’d bring a date to the gala this weekend. The money is going to your organization, after all.”

“I would not invite Jace Everett to a charity event.” I wouldn’t even invite Grady, and I’d actually enjoy bringing him. But I can already tell that a night of Cristal and duck confit is not his kind of thing.

“But you’re coming, right?”

“I am. And I’m bringing Celine’s neighbor from across the hall.” The only time I ever enjoy being a part of a Sparkes Energy social event is when it’s for charity. If there’s one thing my family’s company does right, it’s this. When I was little, it was a chance to get dressed up and walk down a gold carpet and into a wonderland of delicious food and elegant surroundings. Now I simply enjoy seeing the final tally at the end of the night, of thousand-dollar-per-head tickets sold and additional donations received, knowing that a large percentage of that amount will go to a cause of my choosing. Lately, it’s been the foundation that I built from the ground up.

I haven’t actually attended one of these events since I was twenty-two.

“Well, I hope these investments work out for you. Dale Everett is a nice man.”

Of course my mother would know the governor of Illinois. Given that Sparkes Energy headquarters is just outside Chicago and they’re always tied up in one political mess or another, it makes sense she’d be on a first-name basis with him. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? “How well do you know him?”

“Well enough. Almost seven years now, since he started campaigning for his first term. Actually, I was just at a holiday event at his home last weekend. You should see this house, Maggie!” She goes on and on, describing the governor’s English-style Tudor home on the bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, paid for not through his elected position but decades of success at his firm, coupled with the “old money” that came with his wife, Eleanor Everett, nee O’Neill, a political debutante. Apparently the governor’s mansion wasn’t appealing to her.

My mom pulls out her phone and begins scrolling through her pictures with me, showing me the expansive backyard of the Everett estate, filled with people mingling under a white tent set with heaters and twinkling lights, the view of the water beyond spectacular.

“If you should ever have a chance to tour their house, take it,” she says excitedly. My mother has always had a penchant for historic homes, even though she chooses to live in a Trump Towers condo in downtown Chicago. She hands me the phone. “Look at this library. Isn’t it beautiful? All custom-made walnut cabinetry, and it must be more than a thousand square feet.”

“Celine would have loved that,” I murmur, studying the home magazine–worthy picture of peaked ceilings and shelving, skillfully lined with books and sculptures.

“You’re right, she would have. Dale and Eleanor are huge art collectors, in fact. They’ve bought and sold several rare pieces over the years. Eleanor claims herself to be somewhat of an aficionada. She spends a lot of time educating herself.”

Celine would have really loved dating a guy whose mother shared her passion, I’ll bet. Though Celine’s real thrill was always in identifying the treasures and paying very little for them, rather than handing over thousands—if not more—to someone else who had done the legwork.

I expand the screen, getting a closer look at one of the shelves, at the vases and plates and other ceramics on display.

“What’s the matter, Magpie?” my mom asks. “If you scowl like that, you’ll get wrinkles.”

I zoom in on another shelf.

And another.

And I can feel my scowl deepening.

I can’t tell her what I’m thinking.

But this is all just too coincidental to be ignored.

————

“I need you to find out everything you can about Governor Dale Everett and his wife, Eleanor,” I demand, bracing myself as my taxi driver blasts his horn and swerves around a stopped car while people climb out of it, skates slung over their shoulders, smiling and laughing and oblivious. No doubt on their way to the rink at Rockefeller Center.