counted the steps as I made my way up the grand staircase and got to eleven before I paused to take in the artwork lining the wall. A blond-haired little girl blew a dandelion in one portrait and sat astride a horse in the next. I watched her grow, mahogany-framed picture by mahogany-framed picture, until a baby boy joined her in the yearly portrait, their outfits color-­coordinated, her smile sweet and practiced and his served with increasingly large sides of trouble.

When I made it to the top of the stairs, I came face-to-face with a family portrait: Aunt Olivia and Uncle J.D., the blond girl, now a teenager, sitting beside John David, and the elegant Lillian Taft standing with one hand on her daughter’s shoulder and one hand on her grandson’s. To the right of the family portrait, there was one of Aunt Olivia in a white dress. At first, I thought it was a wedding dress, but then I realized that my aunt wasn’t much older in this picture than I was now. The teenage Olivia wore elbow-length white gloves.

My eyes flitted to the left of the family portrait. There was a small, almost invisible hole in the wall. Had another portrait hung there once?

Say, for instance, one of my mom?

“I am on the verge of using some very unladylike language.” The voice that issued that statement was sweet as pie.

“Lily…”

“Unladylike and creative.”

As I made my way toward the second door on the left, the person who’d said my cousin’s name spoke up again, tentatively this time. “On a scale of one to bad, is this really so awful?”

The reply was delicate and demure. “I suppose that depends on how one feels about felonies.”

I cleared my throat, and the occupants of the room turned to look at me. I recognized my cousin Lily from the portraits: light hair, dark eyes, small waist, big bones. Every hair was in place. Her summer blouse was freshly pressed. The girl next to her was stunningly beautiful and also, based on her expression, on the verge of projectile vomiting.

Then again, I probably would have been nauseous, too, if I were lying on my stomach with my back arched and the tips of my toes touching the back of my head.

“Hello.” Cousin Lily did an admirable impression of someone who had decidedly not been discussing felonies a moment before. For a girl who looked like she’d just stepped out of a magazine spread entitled “Tasteful Floral Prints for Virginal Ivy League Hopefuls,” she had balls.

This girl and I share one-eighth of our DNA.

“You must be Sawyer.” Lily had her mother’s way of saying the word must: two parts emphasis, one part command.

The contortionist on the floor unfolded herself. “Sawyer,” she repeated, her eyes wide. “The cousin.”

She sounded just horrified enough to make me wonder if she considered cousin synonymous with ax murderer.

“Our grandmother sent me up,” I told Lily as her friend attempted to stand very still, like I was some kind of bear and any motion might be taken as reason to attack.

“I’m supposed to help you get ready for tonight,” Lily said. She caught the gaze of the doe-eyed girl next to her, who was noticeably wringing her hands. “I’m supposed to help her get ready for tonight,” Lily repeated. Clearly, she was trying to get some kind of message across.

“I can go if you two are in the middle of something.” I echoed Lily’s emphasis.

My cousin turned her dark brown eyes back to me. She had a way of looking at a person like she was considering dissecting you or giving you a makeover or possibly both.

I did not like my chances.

“Don’t be silly, Sawyer.” Lily took a step toward me. “You aren’t interrupting a thing. Sadie-Grace and I were just having a little chat. Did I introduce you to Sadie-Grace? Sadie-Grace Waters, meet Sawyer Taft.” Lily had clearly inherited our grandmother’s penchant for rendering her own questions rhetorical. “It is Taft, isn’t it?” She plowed on before I could reply. “I apologize for not being there to greet you downstairs. You must think I was absolutely raised in a barn.”

I’d spent six months at age thirteen learning everything there was to know about gambling and games of chance. I was willing to lay good odds right now that my oh-so-felicitous cousin hadn’t been particularly enthused about the idea of a blood relation from the wrong side of the tracks being suddenly foisted upon her. Not that she’d admit to a lack of enthusiasm.

That, I thought, would be almost as ill-mannered as threatening fratricide.

“I was pretty much raised in a bar,” I replied when I realized Lily had finally paused for a breath. “As long as you can refrain from breaking a chair over someone’s back, we’re good.”

Emily Post had apparently not prepared either Lily or ­Sadie-Grace for offhanded discussions of bar brawls. As they searched for an appropriate response, I drifted toward a nearby window. It overlooked the backyard, and down below, I could see shimmery black tablecloths being spread over round-top tables. There were easily a half dozen workers and three times that many tables.

There was also a catwalk.

“Were you really raised in a bar?” Sadie-Grace came to stand beside me. She was tall and willowy thin and bore a striking resemblance to a certain classic beauty best known for marrying into the royal family. Her delicate fingers worried at the tips of ridiculously thick and shiny brown hair.

Wide-eyed. Anxious. Prone to yoga. I cataloged what I knew about her, then answered the question. “My mom and I lived above The Holler until I was thirteen. I wasn’t technically allowed in the bar, but I have a slight tendency to take technicalities as a challenge.”

Sadie-Grace nibbled on her bottom lip, looking down at me through impossibly long lashes. “If you grew up like that, you must know things,” she said very seriously. “You must know people. ­People who know things.”

A quick glance at Lily told me that she didn’t like the direction this conversation was going.

I turned back to Sadie-Grace. “Are you by any chance fixing to ask me what my stance is on felonies?”

“We need to get you a dress for tonight, Sawyer!” Lily smiled brightly and shot laser eyes at Sadie-Grace, lest the latter even think about answering my question. “We’ll hit the shops. And goodness knows we could stand to do something about those eyebrows.”

I took that to mean that Lily had come down on the side of makeover over dissection, but I got the feeling that it had probably been a pretty close call.

Beside me, Sadie-Grace assiduously avoided eye contact, her bottom lip still caught between her teeth.

I don’t want to know, I decided. Whatever my cousin’s gotten herself into, whatever I overheard, I really and truly do not want to know.