Connie jumped at this idea, and Meredith couldn’t blame her, though Meredith didn’t want to see the statement broadcast on TV; she wanted three more Ativan and a dark bedroom. She wanted to talk to Freddy; her throat ached with the need. Tell me everything. Tell me who you really were.

Toby and Dan and Connie went into the sitting room and turned on the television. Meredith lingered in the hallway, not committing to watching, not committing to hiding upstairs. She was dangerously close to the front door; anyone might see her through the sidelights. She stepped into the sitting room. She heard Connie reading her words: Please know that I am hurting… She saw Connie on the screen, looking natural and calm and poised. The channel was CNN. The banner at the bottom of the screen read: Meredith Delinn spokesperson, Constance Flute, responds to the news of love affair between Freddy Delinn and the couple’s decorator, Samantha Deuce.

In the background, Meredith could see Connie’s house.

The banner changed to read: Meredith Delinn seeking refuge on Nantucket Island.

It was her they were talking about, her life. That was her best friend speaking her words. They showed the house-this very house where they were now watching TV. It was weirdly reflexive.

Connie said, “I look awful.”

Toby said, “It’s not really about you, Con.”

Dan said, “You look great.”

Meredith needed to thank Connie for going out there on her behalf and reading the statement, but she couldn’t find the words.

And then the phone rang.


Toby answered. He said, “May I ask who’s calling?”

Meredith started to shake. She clung to the soft material of her skirt.

Toby put a hand over the receiver. “It’s your attorney.”


Meredith took the phone upstairs to her room. She reminded herself to breathe. She was light-headed; the caffeine from the coffee darted through her like lightning bolts. She felt a pressure in her bowels. But not now, with Dev on the phone. She lay down on her bed.

“Two things,” Dev said. He sounded more chipper than he had earlier. Maybe his coffee had kicked in, too. “I just saw the statement on TV.”

“Already?” Meredith said.

“We have a twenty-four-hour news feed in the office,” Dev said. “Everyone does these days.”

“And…?” she said.

“You could have said more,” he said. “And you could have said it yourself.”

Meredith nodded, though of course he couldn’t see this. “I couldn’t…”

“Because you know what people’s response will be. Is already.”

“What?”

“That you hired someone to do it for you. A spokesperson.”

“I didn’t hire Connie. She’s my friend. I didn’t have the guts to do it myself. She offered.”

“I’m just telling you the perception. What people will think.”

“I don’t care what people think,” Meredith said.

“You do, though,” Dev said.

Meredith thought, He’s right. I do.

Taking pity on her, he said, “But it was better than nothing. You communicated something. That’s what matters.”

“The second thing?” Meredith said. The caffeine high was fading. She was suddenly exhausted.

“I spoke to the warden at Butner,” Dev said.

Her bowels squelched. She put a hand to her abdomen.

“He’s looking into it for you,” Dev said. “The phone call.”


Dan had to leave the house to go to work. He asked if anyone was up for steaks that night at his house.

Toby said, “Not tonight, man.”

Meredith said nothing. She was now the fun-sucker Dan had feared she would be.

Connie said, “Maybe. Call later.”

“You guys should go,” Meredith said. Dan was leaving soon for a three-day camping trip to New Hampshire with his sons. And by the time he returned, there would be less than a week left before Labor Day. It was all going to end; there was nothing Meredith could do to stop it.


Connie and Meredith and Toby retreated to the back deck. It was hot; Meredith wanted to swim, but she was afraid if she tried to swim, she would drown. Her limbs felt light and useless. She was a husk. She was a bladder filled with the hot, stinking air of anxiety.

Toby said, “You should divorce him, Meredith.”

“Leave her be, Toby,” Connie scolded. Then a few seconds later, she said, “You should divorce him. I’ll pay for it.”

Meredith laughed a sad, dry laugh. She hadn’t even considered cost.


Toby swam. Meredith moved in and out of consciousness. She felt sluggish, then jumpy; the Ativan were exacting revenge. Toby became Harold, Harold had been brutally killed, and it was Meredith’s fault. It was like Meredith had a hex on her, why not blame her for everything, the oil spill in the Gulf, the bloodshed in the Middle East. Why, oh why, had Samantha spoken? Everyone would hate Samantha now, too, her life would be ruined. She must have loved Freddy, must love him still if she was going to allow him to destroy her life. She still had young kids, one of them only ten. Her business would go kaput, or maybe not. Maybe infidelity boosted a decorator’s cachet. What did Meredith know? Samantha was writing a book. Meredith could write a book, should write a book, but what would that book say? I wasn’t paying attention. I was moving blithely through my days. I accepted what Freddy told me as the truth. I had never been exposed to lying or liars growing up; I didn’t know what to look for.

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?”