Derek Lawson had a handsome face in the kind of clean, all-American way people in Chicago suburbs trusted too easily. Dark blond hair, blue eyes, expensive smile, broad shoulders. At thirty-two, he looked like the kind of man who belonged in an ad for golf memberships and artisanal bourbon. For a long time, I thought that smile meant safety. That night it looked rehearsed.
He stopped in front of me, right there between the cake table and the fireplace.
“Happy birthday, Claire,” he said.
My mother beamed from behind a tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries.
Emily looked from him to me, and I saw a tiny crease form between her brows.
Continue on the next page:
