Chapter 16: In Front of the Firm

Rosalie had been on the road to Portland for eighteen hours with a bag of Carl's cash.

Her phone went straight to voicemail every time I tried it.

So I drove to Boston with the phone face up on the seat, and it stayed silent the whole way.

Desmond's firm held its Wednesday meeting at nine, in a glass room on the ninth floor, and I sat in the last chair by the door.

There were thirty-some brokers around the table, and they all knew me.

Half of them had eaten at my kitchen island on one holiday or another.

"Susannah," said the managing partner, a tall woman with a white bob. "I'm told you're here at Desmond's request."

"I'm here at mine," I said. "He's the one with something to read."

Desmond stood at the head of the table with two sheets of paper.

He had not slept, and his hand was shaking so badly that the pages rustled.

"I'd like to read a statement," he said. "It's long, and I'd ask you not to interrupt."

Nobody did.

He read it in a low voice, with his eyes on the paper.

He said that for nineteen months he had moved money out of his joint account with his wife.

He had sent it to his ex-wife and her husband.

He gave the dates of the first and the last transfers.

He said he had lied to his wife about where it went.

A young broker near the window looked at his own hands.

He said he had told the family of his daughter's fiancé that a cottage belonged to him, and it did not.

"I had a realtor measure it," he said. "I let a buyer sign an offer on it. The buyer was my ex-wife's husband."

The managing partner's pen stopped.

"Desmond," she said.

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