One of the three young men — the one with the watch, who appeared in rooms the way men appeared in rooms when their fathers dealt with prosecutors — said something to the one beside him.
Leaned in. The lean of two people sharing a calculation.
The third pointed.
At a girl near the window.
Brown hair. Nineteen, maybe.
Still holding her glass but not drinking from it, which had been noticed. She'd been careful — some instinct, or a warning from a friend, or just the animal knowledge that something in this room had shifted from what it had been presented as.
She was looking for Celia.
Celia, who she'd met at orientation, who had invited her onto a yacht with a confidence that she'd trusted because Celia moved through the world with the specific ease of someone who'd grown up with the kind of safety net that makes ease possible.
Celia was at the bar.
The one with the watch moved toward the brown-haired girl.
