Connie said, “What are you thinking about?”

Meredith said, “Nothing.”

The phone in the house rang. Meredith nearly leapt out of her chair at the sound. She knew she shouldn’t answer it, but she hoped it was Dev calling back with an answer from the warden. She checked the caller ID: NUMBER UNAVAILABLE. Meredith couldn’t help herself: she picked up.

A woman’s voice said, “Meredith?”

Meredith felt like someone’s hands were around her neck. She felt like she had a golf ball stuck in her throat, or one of the gobstoppers the boys used to buy at the candy store in Southampton.

“It’s Samantha,” the woman said, though of course Meredith knew this.

“No,” Meredith said.

“Meredith, please.”

Please what? What did Samantha want? Did she expect to bond with Meredith now that she had been exposed as Freddy’s lover? Did she think that she and Meredith would be sister-wives, do the blended family thing the way Toby was so content doing? Meredith as some sort of ersatz aunt to Samantha’s children? Meredith and Samantha joining forces to appeal Freddy’s sentence?

“No,” Meredith said, and she hung up.


The phone rang again an hour and six minutes later. Meredith was hyperaware of time passing. She thought of Samantha stroking Freddy’s goatee. He had grown the goatee for Samantha, he had started going to the gym for Samantha. Everything had been for Samantha.

Meredith believed that it had all started when she went to Veronica’s funeral. Or shortly after. Because Freddy sensed something, because Meredith came back addled and distracted. Freddy had asked her how the funeral was, and she had said, “Oh, it was fine,” though it hadn’t been fine; it had been an emotional sweat bath, but Meredith had stayed true to Freddy. She had stayed true, but not Freddy. He had stepped out of bounds. He had called Samantha, or something had sparked between the two of them in person. Meredith understood that. Because of what had happened between her and Toby at the funeral, she understood. But when you’re married, you smother those sparks. You step on them, you extinguish them.


Meredith felt like she was going to vomit again. When she checked the caller ID, it gave the name of the law firm.

“Hello?” Meredith said.

“Meredith?” It was Dev.

“Yes,” she said.

“Boy, do I have news for you,” he said. “Sit down and fasten your seatbelt.”

Meredith didn’t like the way this sounded. At all. She said warily, “What is it?”

“Listen to this: There were four numbered accounts at the bank in Switzerland where Thad Orlo was most recently employed that looked like they might have links to Delinn Enterprises. Each of the accounts had the same numbers and letters as the one on your supposed NASA certificate, only in a different order. These accounts were all “managed” by Thad Orlo, and each account contained either a little over or a little under a billion dollars. But these were holding accounts; there was no action on them.”

Meredith said nothing. She hated to say it, but she no longer cared about Thad Orlo or the missing money. Still, she had the wherewithal to ask, “Whose accounts were they?”

“All four accounts were under the name of Kirby Delarest.”

Meredith gasped.

Dev said, “Wait, it gets better.”

“But you know who Kirby Delarest is, right?” Meredith asked. “He lived near us in Palm Beach. He was an investor.”

“Not an investor,” Dev said. “He was Freddy’s henchman. He was the one responsible for hiding the money and moving it around.”

“He’s dead,” Meredith said. She thought of Amy Rivers, her lip curled in disgust. “He killed himself.”

“He killed himself,” Dev said, “because he was in so deep. Because he was afraid he was going to get caught. But Meredith…” Here, Dev paused. Meredith could picture him pushing back his floppy bangs or adjusting his glasses. “He was not only investing with Thad Orlo. He was Thad Orlo.”

“What?” Meredith said.

“Kirby Delarest and Thad Orlo were the same person. He held two passports-one American, Kirby Delarest, and one Danish, Thad Orlo. Thad Orlo had an apartment in Switzerland where he worked for the Swiss bank and managed four accounts, which contained a total of four billion dollars. Kirby Delarest of Palm Beach, Florida, owned three large condo buildings in West Palm as well as a P.F. Chang’s restaurant and a couple of rinky-dink strip malls. His real action, though, was overseas. He hid Freddy’s clients’ money and kept it safe. Four billion dollars. Can you believe it?”

Meredith reminded herself to breathe. She saw Connie coming up the stairs from the beach rubbing her wet hair with a towel, and she prayed that Connie wouldn’t come inside and ask if Meredith wanted a turkey sandwich for lunch. Meredith needed to process what she’d just heard; she felt like she was torn between two worlds. There was this world, Nantucket, with the ocean and the outdoor shower and lunch on the deck, and then there was the world of international banking and double identities and lies. Kirby Delarest was Thad Orlo. Kirby had been tall and blond and lean, and he’d had that accent, which he’d claimed he’d acquired growing up in Wisconsin. Meredith knew something was wrong with that answer, but she hadn’t questioned him. What had Freddy always said? Midwesterners were the most honest people on earth. Ha! Kirby Delarest had been in cahoots with Freddy. His daughters always wore those beautiful matching Bonpoint dresses. Meredith thought of the afternoon when she had discovered Freddy and Kirby Delarest by the pool, the bottle of Petrus consumed by two men on a Wednesday afternoon to celebrate the fact that they were robbing the whole world blind. Kirby Delarest had shot himself in the head rather than face Freddy’s fate.

Meredith’s eyes burned like she was in the desert. The account numbers had all been variations on the phony NASA star. These were Silver Girl accounts. Did that implicate her further? Please, she prayed, no.

“So you found the money, then?” she said. “Four billion? That’s a lot of money.”

“No, no,” Dev said. “The money was withdrawn last October. All of it-gone, vanished. Moved, most likely in cash, to another location.”

“When in October?” Meredith asked, dreading the answer.

“October seventeenth.”

Meredith shut her eyes. Connie tapped on the glass door. Meredith opened her eyes. Connie mouthed, Are you okay?

“That’s…” Meredith said.

“What?” Dev said.

“You’re sure it was the seventeenth?” Meredith said. “The seventeenth of October?”

“What is it?” Dev said. “What is the seventeenth of October?”

“Samantha Deuce’s birthday,” Meredith said.

“Okay,” Dev said. “Okay, okay, okay. Could be a coincidence. But probably not. Let me call you back.”

“Wait!” Meredith said. “I have to know… Have you heard from the warden? At Butner? Can I speak to Fred?”

“Fred?” Dev said, as though he wasn’t sure who Meredith meant. Then he said, “Oh. No, I haven’t heard back.”

“I really need to…”

“I’ll let you know if I do,” Dev said. “When I do.” And he hung up.


Meredith lowered herself onto a chair. She thought about Kirby Delarest, his wife Janine, those little blond girls, as perfect and precious as the von Trapps. She thought of Kirby Delarest’s brains splattered all over his garage. Meredith remembered Otto, the folk sculpture in Thad Orlo’s Manhattan apartment with his gray cottony hair and the piece of wire twisted to make spectacles. She remembered how carefully she had watered the Norfolk pine, terrified it would turn brown and lose its branches in their custody. She had never met Thad Orlo, though she had lived among his things. Those fancy knives, the blond wood rocking chair. She had felt she’d known him.


The phone rang at ten minutes past six.

The evening news, Meredith thought. America was now watching the evening news.

Connie was there to check the caller ID. “Number unavailable,” she said. “Should I answer?”

“I’ll answer,” Toby said. He had just come downstairs in fresh clothes. Meredith had been unable to tell him or Connie about the Thad Orlo/Kirby Delarest story, partly because it was so bizarre that Meredith couldn’t believe it was true, though of course it was true. Freddy hadn’t acted alone; he’d had helpers, henchmen, Dev had called them, people helping him to dig a mass financial grave-and it made sense that Meredith would know some of these people. Kirby Delarest was Thad Orlo. All of the things that hadn’t made sense about Kirby Delarest were now explained. Meredith had been right about Thad Orlo, and she had been right about the phony NASA star, and yet she worried about just how right she had been. The $4 billion in those accounts were, however tangentially, connected to her. Had Freddy hidden the money there for her? He’d moved it on October seventeenth-Samantha’s birthday-but what did that mean? Was it a coincidence, or was the money for Samantha?

Meredith was afraid to think any further.

She also didn’t tell Connie or Toby because she wanted to keep the noxious fumes of the story out of this house. This house was Meredith’s only safe place. But she couldn’t keep the phone from ringing.

“I’ll get it,” Connie said, and she picked up. “Hello?”

Meredith watched Connie’s face, trying to gauge friend or foe, but she couldn’t tell. Connie looked surprised; her mouth formed a small, tight “o.” Her eyes popped, then mysteriously, filled with tears. Were these sad tears, happy tears, angry tears, a little of each? Meredith couldn’t tell.

Connie held out the phone. “It’s for you,” she whispered. She blinked. Tears spilled down her pretty, tanned face. Meredith took the phone, and Connie moved away with purpose.

“Hello?” Meredith said, thinking, What has Connie just handed me?

“Mom?”

Oh, my God. She nearly dropped the phone. It was Carver.


What did he say? What did she say? She could only remember the conversation in snippets afterwards.

“I saw the news,” he said.

“Did you?” she said.

“Jesus, Mom. I can’t believe it.”

She didn’t want to talk about this. She had her son on the phone. Her baby, her beloved child.

“How are you? What are you doing? How is your brother? Are you making it? Are you okay?” She would have said there was nothing bigger inside her than her hurt, but yes, this was bigger. Her love for her sons was bigger.

But Carver was stuck back on this other thing. “He cheated on you, Mom. Now do you see? Please tell me you see him for what he really is… a shallow, empty person who fills himself up with lies and things that he can take from other people. You get it now, right?”

“I get it,” she said, though she was lying. She didn’t get it. “I need to talk to him.”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

“No!” Carver shouted. “Forget him, leave him, divorce him, get him out of your life. This is your chance.”

“Okay,” Meredith said. “Yes, you’re right. You’re right. How are you? How are you?”

Carver’s voice softened. “But he did love you, Mom. That’s what blows me away about all of this. He really did love you. He revered you, like a queen or a goddess. Leo agrees with me. He knows it, too.”

Leo! Meredith thought. She wanted to talk to Leo. He was such a straight arrow, such a good kid, on his hands and knees scraping wax off the hard wood floor of the church, refusing Meredith’s help. There had been one time when Meredith had shot up to Choate in the middle of the week to see Leo’s lacrosse game. Meredith broke the speed limit in the Jaguar, but she had made it there in time to surprise Leo, and he had scored the goal that won the game. Meredith had been there to cheer, and then afterward, she took Leo and Carver and two teammates to Carini’s for pizza. She had made it back to the city before Freddy got home from work, but when he walked in, she told him what she’d done; she told him about the goal and how surprised Leo had been to see her, and how he’d kissed her through the car window before she pulled out of the gates, even though his buddies were watching.

Freddy had smiled wearily. “You’re a wonderful mother, Meredith,” he’d said. But his mind had been elsewhere.

“Are you okay?” Meredith asked. “Is Leo okay?”

Carver sighed. “We’re doing okay, Mom.”

But what did this mean? Was he really okay? Meredith had been picturing the two of them in a big, dusty Victorian house. She wanted to hear about the house, how they were refinishing the floors or painting the baseboards.

“We love you,” Carver said. “But I’m calling to make sure you do the right thing. File for divorce. Please. Promise me.”