“You have such a nice house,” Logan said as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Thank you for inviting me to join tonight.” I smiled at him, then introduced him to Libby, Andy, and the girls. As he shook Andy’s hand, Libby leaned over and whispered in my ear. “His sneakers cost eight hundred dollars.”
I glanced down at them. I had no reason to doubt her, but they just looked like normal sneakers to me. I watched how he pulled out the chair for Savannah, then waited for her to sit. A nice boy from a nice family, my mother would have said, even without knowing how much his sneakers cost.
My mother never forgave me for marrying Gabriel. You’re pretty enough to marry up, she’d said. Don’t marry a marine, marry a millionaire! But I had no idea how to meet a millionaire. I know it sounds shallow, but part of the reason I wanted to move to Calabasas was so Savannah would meet kids from families with means. Not just so she could marry one, but so she could be one herself. Sure, we had money now. But I had no idea how this would end. I had suppressed evidence of a crime, accepted a bribe, lied to the police. I did it to help Savannah have a better life than I did, but she would only be helped if I didn’t get caught. If I wound up in jail where I belonged, she’d need the kind of friends who could afford $800 sneakers.
“This garlic bread is amazing,” Logan raved as he helped himself to a second piece, making sure to offer the basket to Savannah before he set it back down. We ate family-style, passing bowls back and forth and all helping ourselves. Libby asked Logan a million questions—Are you still living at home? What will you study at Harvard? What inspired you to take a gap year? She even got away with the dreaded So how did you two meet? without eliciting an eye roll. She was a skilled conversationalist, peppering her questions with anecdotes about her own schooling, why she chose William & Mary for undergrad and Columbia for her PhD. Andy chimed in as well, describing how he dumped his premed track for an economics degree once he realized what a “bitch” organic chem （whatever that is?） turned out to be.
I enjoyed hearing their stories, but I had absolutely nothing to add. As they chatted about favorite professors and books, I tried to make myself as small as possible, praying the conversation would not turn to me. I never went to college. Me and my rudimentary math skills took a job as a bookkeeper right out of high school. I had no idea who William or Mary was, or what you might learn from going to school with them, and I didn’t want to make a fool out of myself for asking. Libby was kind enough to only look at me when the conversation turned to simpler things, like my salad—Were the croutons homemade?—or what restaurants we’d been to—If you haven’t tried Delmonico’s, you must!—or if I thought this heat wave will ever break?
Everything about the evening confirmed what I already knew.
I was a complete and total fraud. I didn’t belong in this house or this neighborhood. And I was not going to be friends with Libby.
I was both an outsider and a prisoner in my own home.
They could never know what I’d done, where I came from, who I really was.
I could never be close to anyone. I could never again be myself.
This was the life I’d chosen with my lies and my crimes. The only question that remained was if it was worth living.
EVAN
Three months ago
The changes I was making to Jack’s legal documents had to be notarized, which meant letting one other person in on our sin.
I decided not to use my regular notary public, or one that would come to my house, choosing a high-volume UPS Store instead. I dressed down so I wouldn’t be memorable and showed up for my appointment early so as not to risk pissing anyone off.
As was the case with most rich people, Jack’s money was all spread out. He had business accounts, investment accounts, real estate holdings, a personal savings account, a flow-through S corporation, a joint checking account with Kate, an equity line of credit, and—just in case all hell broke loose—a safe full of hundreds in his closet.
Jack’s cash flow was an intricate matrix of wire transfers taking money in through one entity and paying it out through another. Money was deposited into Jack’s business account from the studio. The business account paid him a salary through his S corp. If he produced a movie, we set up a production account just for that picture, and he got an additional salary, or salaries—depending on how many jobs he was doing—that flowed through his S corp to whatever account he specified.
Jack had a business manager and a CPA, but all transactions were monitored by Jack’s wife, Kate. In her job as CFO of Jack’s company, she authorized every transaction and audited the books every month for accuracy. She personally approved the movement of every dollar in and out of their accounts. In normal times, this was a huge weight off Jack’s shoulders. But now it was a problem. Because Jack needed money. More money than was in that safe. And he couldn’t tell his wife.