She turned the music down. “As it happens,” she said, “I’m available. And hungry. Suddenly I’m really, really hungry. For a steak, or a burger. Something like that. Do you want to pick me up?”

“Sure! Where would you like to procure this burger or steak? I’m open to anything.”

“Anywhere but the Deck.”

“Give me ten minutes,” said Daniel.

Rebecca turned off her phone and waited outside, on the porch, watching the cars go by, the occasional bike and dog walker. As it turned out, the summer evening really was sort of lovely.

25.

Alexa

Before Alexa had too much time to think they had parked in one of the lots behind the casino, given over their tickets, been ID’d and braceleted. Alexa’s bracelet marked her as under twenty-one. Cam had a really good fake ID and his demeanor and haircut both suggested maturity; it went unquestioned. Alexa was surprised Cam even had a fake ID. Did he go to Confession after procuring it?

Cam got them both beers and warned Alexa to be mindful of the security guys. The band took the stage. The music started. Cam and Alexa sipped and swayed to the music with the old people and the drunk people and the people who acquired their hairstyles, like, more than two decades ago and never changed them, and Alexa started to feel a subtle shift in her attitude toward Hampton Beach. It was refreshing to be close to home and yet feel so far away. Nobody knew Alexa here, and she knew nobody. The band’s rendition of “The Space Between” was not half bad, and the not-Dave-Matthews Dave Matthews was wicked cute. All things considered, Alexa was beginning to have a good time.

You cannot quit me so quickly, Cam, she thought. She swayed a little closer to Cam, allowing her Ramy Brook silk to rub up against his scratchy plaid shirt. He smelled good, clean and masculine. She gave her hair a toss and wondered what he would do if she leaned over and kissed him. Just as that thought was forming she noticed a man staring at her from across the room.

The guy was older, like Peter’s age, and at first she wondered if he could be the dad of one of her friends or the husband of one of her mother’s Mom Squad members. But then she realized that he wasn’t looking at her that way, like a dad or an uncle, but in a different, creepier way. No, she thought. No no no.

“The wicked lies we tell,” sang not-Dave Matthews. The wicked lies we tell, thought Alexa.

“Going to the bathroom,” she told Cam. “Be right back.” She hightailed it toward the restrooms but she knew—she was positive—that the guy was following her. She could feel his presence behind her, and of course she was right. It was quieter by the bathrooms, the music was muted, so she heard him loud and clear when he said, “Hey!”

She ignored him. She was almost at the bathroom door. She was about to open the door.

“Hey,” said the guy again. “Aren’t you that Silk Stockings girl?” And he had his hand on her shoulder, just like that.

She turned. “You must be mistaken,” she said quickly. “I think you have me mixed up with somebody else.”

He slid his hand down her arm and kept it there. She wanted to shake off the hand, she wanted to call for help, but a), she didn’t want Cam to know any of this was happening, and b), she was still holding the beer and she didn’t want to attract attention and get arrested for underage drinking, which would also get Cam in trouble for buying it for her.

“You’re lying,” said the guy. Up close she could see that he was maybe in his late thirties or early forties, younger than Peter, with a stubbly beard and small brown eyes that were set far apart, like the eyes of a snake. “You know what my friends and I call you? Little Miss BTP.” She didn’t want to know what that stood for, but she had a feeling he was going to tell her. “Better than porn.” He licked his lips. “Because you wear those fancy clothes, but all we can think about is what you look like without them.”

Alexa flicked his hand off her arm so hard she was surprised it didn’t hit him in the face, and pushed the bathroom door open. Her heart was racing and her pulse was racing and she felt like she was going to throw up. She’d never been recognized like that before, and it felt more disconcerting and invasive than she’d ever expected that it would. She knew her videos got a lot of eyeballs; if they didn’t, she wouldn’t make any money. But she’d never thought about all of those eyeballs belonging to specific people, to potential perverts or stalkers.

There was so much pot smoke inside the bathroom that Alexa thought she might have gotten high just from walking in there. Alexa dumped her nearly empty beer cup in the trash and joined a woman with frosted hair and frosted lips and frosted nails at the mirror considering her frosted reflection with a sour expression.

“I look like a friggin’ corpse,” the woman said, glancing up at Alexa and then back at the mirror, frowning. “This friggin’ light, why do they have to make it so bright? It’s like, you’re out there dancing, feeling good, then you come in here, and bam. Reality.”

Alexa said, “Amen, sister,” though she herself avoided the mirror, not wanting to see how scared she might look.

“You okay?” said the woman. “Because you look like something just spooked you.” She had a real North Shore accent and a cigarette-addled voice.