I did not go to the kitchen. I stepped out onto the club’s back terrace, and a minute later Nathaniel followed, his face pale beneath the string lights. “Forgive me,” he said. “You look exactly like someone I lost a very long time ago.” He took a breath. “Twenty-seven years ago, my younger sister, Eleanor, disappeared. She had a newborn daughter. There was a car accident. Eleanor died, but the baby was never found. The family was told the child had died too.” His voice trembled. “You have her eyes. Her exact face. And you’re twenty-seven years old.”

Behind us, the terrace door opened. Warren stood there, and behind him, Beatrice, both of them the color of ash. “Nathaniel, whatever she’s told you—” Warren started, but Nathaniel raised a hand. “She hasn’t told me anything. She doesn’t know anything. That’s what I want to understand.” He turned back to me and asked the question that would shatter everything. “Camille, do you have any documents from your adoption? Anything at all?” I nodded slowly, because I did. I had found a sealed envelope years ago, hidden in Warren’s study, with my name on it, and I had never dared open it. “I know where it is,” I whispered. And I watched Warren’s face collapse, because he knew exactly what that envelope contained.