The television’s glow was the only warmth on the dark street, a cruel, flickering beacon. Linsy’s consciousness, already frayed from the icy harbor and the shock of survival, now unraveled completely as the images played out.

The screen showed a sea of flashbulbs, a red carpet like a river of blood. And there they were. Michael, a sculpture in midnight-black tuxedo, his arm a formal platform for Violet Bento, who shimmered in a gown of liquid silver, looking every inch the conquering ...