It was a stage set, dressed to convince investors and in-laws and the occasional prospective bride that there was substance behind the performance, when in fact the substance had been gone for years and the props were probably themselves mortgaged.

I thought about Yvaine’s father co-signing those guarantees, sitting in that beautiful library, looking at those oil paintings, and being reassured by exactly the display that was designed to reassure him.

The whole house was a weapon.

Every expensive object in it was aimed at the next person they needed to convince.

And I had walked in and been convinced, for about an hour, until a woman in faded sweatpants set down a coffee cup and her sleeve slid back and I saw, past the entire elaborate production, the one true thing in that house.

But it was Yvaine’s history that turned my stomach.