“No, no,” Gwen said, shrinking back. “I’m just here for moral support.”

“It’s going in a book, not online,” Ellie said. “That’s different.”

“I still want to err on the side of caution when it comes to protecting Reagan,” Gwen said. “Especially now.”

“Oh, come on, Gwen,” Ellie snapped. “Don’t make us feel bad about doing something fun! Pervs don’t buy coffee-table books.”

“All right,” Whitney said. “It’s Gwen’s decision.”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen said, her mouth twisting. “I didn’t mean to imply that . . . I’m just really not in a state to—”

“None of us is,” Ellie said.

“It’s not just that.” Gwen shook her head, as if she were already mad at herself for what she was about to say. “It’s Christopher.”

“Oh, no. Do you still think he’s having an affair?” Amara asked, and Gwen nodded. Claire’s heart began to beat faster.

“Oh, my God! What did he do now?” Meredith asked, holding her hand casually over her chin as if nobody would know that she was trying to hide her acne.

“We don’t need to get into it. Not when you all are about to do your nice photo shoot,” Gwen said.

“You matter more to us than the photo shoot, obviously,” Amara said.

“Tell us,” Ellie said.

“Well,” Gwen said, “he was rattled about something last night, and when I asked him what was wrong, he pretended it was nothing and started being overly nice and courteous.”

“Oh, goodness,” Whitney said. “I wish Grant would be too nice to me!”

Gwen grimaced. “I know, it sounds so dumb. But he smelled too clean again too. He said it was the gym, but I just can’t stop suspecting, and I feel like I’m going insane.”

“I was watching him at Reagan’s birthday party,” Ellie said, “and he seemed super devoted to you and the girls.”

Whitney crinkled her brow and put a hand on Gwen’s back. “Maybe you should head on home, go take a little rest or something. Or treat yourself a bit—you’ll probably feel better if you just get a chance to relax.”

“Thanks,” Gwen said. “That seems like a good idea. I’m just being silly. I think I’m extra paranoid after everything that’s happened recently.” She made a face as if she were disgusted with herself. “I’m really sorry, everyone.”

“I don’t know,” Claire said, and everyone turned to stare at her unexpected intrusion. “I mean, maybe if you’re having these feelings, you’re not wrong. You’ve got to trust your gut and all that, right?”

“Ladies,” an assistant said, bustling up to them, “are you ready to go yet? We are on a schedule and want to make sure you get enough time with the photographer.”

“Yes, we’ll be there in just a sec!” Whitney said.

“Claire,” Gwen said, looking at her in a whole new way, fear creeping into her face, “do you know something?”

“No,” Claire said. “No, I guess I just got a weird vibe from him at the party, that’s all, so I don’t think you need to beat yourself up for being silly.”

“Oh, well, yes, of course you shouldn’t beat yourself up,” Whitney said, and then gestured to where the photographer and the statuesque women were conferring, the photographer looking at her watch. “I’m so sorry to do this, Gwen, but we should probably get to it.”

“No, of course. The last thing I want to do is make this photo shoot all about me,” Gwen said. “Reagan and I are going to go. I’m such an idiot.” As she turned to get Reagan, she flashed Claire a painfully familiar look, one filled with such self-hatred and self-doubt that Claire couldn’t stop herself from opening her mouth.

“You’re not an idiot,” Claire said. “I don’t know if he’s having an affair exactly, but he hit on me.”

Gwen’s voice got very soft. “At the birthday party?”

“No,” Claire said, and it was too difficult to look Gwen in the eyes so she turned her head to the side, catching Whitney in her vision, as she continued. “I ran into him yesterday at a bar.”

“But Christopher doesn’t drink,” Whitney said, a spasm of pain crossing her face so quickly that by the time everyone else turned away from Claire to look at her, it was gone. But Claire saw it. And then everything else started clicking into place, even as Whitney kept on talking in a casual, concerned tone. “I chatted with him a bit at your Christmas party, Gwen, and he mentioned it. Why would he be at a bar?”

In the kitchen at the birthday party, Whitney had greeted Christopher with such studied coolness. Her hand had lingered on his shoulder a little too long for someone who had sounded so detached.

“Oh, God,” Gwen said, putting her head in her hands. “I guess he goes to pick up women. I knew something was going on.”

“Hey, Whitney,” Claire said, buzzing with fury from her chest to her fingertips. “How was your massage yesterday?”

“What?” Whitney said, blinking, her eyelashes extra long from her stint in the makeup chair. “I don’t see at all what that has to do with anything. I didn’t get one. I couldn’t find a sitter.” She turned away to lead them all into the center of the room, to where they could sit on a couch and smile as if they hadn’t a care in the world. “Now, I’m sorry, Gwen. I know this is the worst time, but we really need to get started—”

“So then why did you go to the Windom?” Claire asked.

Whitney stiffened and then turned back around. “What are you talking about?” Her face whitened with a realization. “Were you following me?” Claire folded her arms across her chest and didn’t deny it.

“What the fuck?” Amara asked, letting out a dazed laugh. “Why were you following Whitney around?” Claire turned to Amara, hesitating, and Amara’s confused laughter turned to wariness. “Please, don’t tell me it’s because . . .”

Claire held up her hands. “Okay, it’s going to sound a little nuts, but after you said that something was off about TrueMommy—”

“Claire!” Amara said, darting a look at the other women.

“Wait. What?” Meredith asked.

“Nothing!” Amara said, then turned back to Claire, her eyes narrowing. “I told you to just let it go. You said you would.”