Somewhere in the Halbrook family — I would never know exactly when — a calculation had been made: that Casper marrying Magnus Bergstrom’s daughter would open doors the family business had been unable to open on its own, that my father’s network and reputation would flow to them through me like water through a pipe once the vows were said.

They had done the math on my wedding the way you do the math on a merger.

And having decided the connections were secured the instant the license was signed, they had moved immediately to the part they actually wanted, which was to install me in my proper place — beneath them, useful, silent, grateful.

The grease rag was not a loss of control.

It was a scheduled event.

They had waited exactly until they believed the deal was closed, and then, fourteen hours in, they had started collecting.