The plea hearing was a month later. Burke pleaded guilty, as was the plan, and was sentenced to fourteen months at the Metropolitan Correctional Center.
Doug Kemp, who’d claimed the extent of his involvement was merely introducing Burke to Julian Martell at a party several months earlier, wasn’t even charged. Neither the FBI nor Credit Suisse pushed a deeper investigation; Doug’s father’s golf partner served on the bank’s board of directors.
For a man like Doug, a man like Burke—a nobody from bumfuck nowhere who fought tooth and nail to get a spot in the Credit Suisse analyst program—was the perfect casualty in his failed scheme. Burke had no important connections or worthy background of note, nobody in his family had ever worked in finance, and he had no friends in common with Doug or anyone else in Doug’s circle. The phone records said it all, but even if Burke did try to accuse Doug of lying, no one at the company would believe him.
In a follow-up letter to Burke’s official termination, the CEO of Credit Suisse wrote that he did not envision Burke moving forward with a successful career in banking—this was corporate talk letting him know he’d been blacklisted.
Burke was at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, a month into his prison sentence, when our daughter was born on a rainy morning in April. If the baby turned out to be a girl, Burke had wanted to call her Margaret, after his grandmother. But he wasn’t there, so I named her something more fitting, something I needed in that moment. I named her Hope.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Skye
NOVEMBER 2019
A week before Thanksgiving, my dad says I need to go with him to talk to Davis. I take the subway up to Bryant Park and head toward Davis’s office on Sixth Avenue. The cold air bites my face, and I duck my head to break the wind chill. The midtown streets are already packed with tourists who’ve flocked from all over the world for a taste of the holiday season in New York. I’d always loved the holidays, especially Christmas, up until several years ago when being single this time of year started to feel like a cruel punishment.
But last year, with Burke, Christmas had been a dream. We’d done some last-minute shopping together the day before Christmas Eve, and I remember the feel of his protective arm around me as we navigated the swarm of Fifth Avenue. We weren’t yet engaged, but I remember being sure that I’d never spend the holidays alone again. I’d finally found my person.
Sometimes I wish I were the kind of woman who could be happy on her own. I was, for a while. At one time I relished my independence, I excelled because of it. After I started seeing Dr. Salam and she helped me screw my head on straight about Max LaPointe and everything else, for a good long stretch I didn’t want to prioritize anyone but myself. I threw my energy into work, discovering Jan and the Loving Louise books, all of which became USA Today bestsellers. I trained for a marathon, read six novels a month, prioritized my friendships, and taught myself how to cook. And for the first time in a long time, I was happy.
Not until I fell in love with Burke did I realize the difference between contentment and joy. I had found a way to be content, as a single woman. But I didn’t feel true joy until I met Burke.
Davis’s office is on the twenty-first floor, so I suck it up and take the elevator. I’m running late, and my dad is already there. Davis raises his eyebrows when I walk in—that’s as much of a smile as you’ll get out of him—and interlaces his meaty fingers across his desk. He’s around my dad’s age but grayer, with broad shoulders stretching the span of his suit.
I slide into the vacant seat next to my father, who squeezes my arm and gives me a tight smile.
My phone buzzes on my lap. A text from Jan:
S––I need those edits ASAP. You said you’d have them last week, and if we want the next Louise to launch in July （which I DO!） we need to stay on track. I know you’re going through some serious stuff right now （though I don’t know what, let me know if I can help…）。 Feeling a bit in the dark here and we’re a month behind schedule and I’m starting to freak. Also, launch party is Friday, tell me I’ll see you there???
Fuck. Not only have I completely neglected the edits for Jan’s next book, I’ve entirely forgotten that the current book—the one I worked on tirelessly all spring and summer—launches this week. How is that possible?
“Skye.” Davis looks at me and blinks. “Water? Coffee? What can I have Trina get you?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I shuffle out of my coat, wanting to get this over with so I can get home and work.
“Okay.” Davis nods. “I appreciate you being here. I understand not wanting to be overly involved in the details of the lawsuit against your ex-husband.”
“Husband,” I blurt with instant regret. Heat flushes to my face. “I mean—we’re still technically married.”
Davis nods again.
“Unfortunately,” I add pathetically. My father stares at his lap.
“Yes.” Davis clears his throat. “Well, we’re hoping to have that sorted out soon. You’ll absolutely qualify for an annulment. Since Burke was already married, your marriage is illegal.”
Your marriage is illegal. The permanent knife in my gut finds another way to twist.
“The state will prosecute for grand larceny,” Davis continues. “They won’t really do anything about the bigamy, unfortunately, but we can address that in the civil suit. Regardless, bigamous marriages are void, and grounds for an annulment. An annulment is ideal, of course.”
I want to scream. IS IT? PLEASE TELL ME WHEN AN ANNULMENT IS EVER IDEAL.
“As opposed to divorce,” Davis adds. “It’s much faster and cleaner. There’s no division of assets. It’ll simply be as though your marriage never existed.” He smiles, as though this were good news.
The knife twists deeper still.
“Skye.” My father turns to look at me, shifting uncomfortably. “The reason Davis wanted you here is because … well … you know we need to push this thing further. Beyond the annulment, that is. Burke has committed serious, serious crimes.” My father glances toward Davis, silently begging him to take over.
“Yes,” Davis grunts, rearranging some papers in front of his bulky chest. “The bastard stole two million, right from under your nose. I won’t lie—at first, I was worried the state wouldn’t be able to get him for grand larceny, since the money was stolen from a joint account to which Burke was entrusted by you as his spouse. But fortunately, since we know Burke intends to plead guilty, we’re golden.” Davis grins slyly. “Getting him for grand larceny will be a huge win for us, Skye.”
“Wait.” My heart picks up speed. “Burke has already pleaded guilty?”
“He intends to, according to his lawyer.” Davis looks at me blankly. “It’s not completely surprising. With the email he sent your friend and the attachment of the electronic letters to the therapist—all of which he admits are factual—the evidence shows that this was all premeditated. It’s stacked against him. We also have the bank records, proof of his ATM withdrawals, the payments he was sending to his—er—first wife. Not to mention the generous transfer he made to his now-dead neighbor, right before you removed him from the joint account. Sneaky son of a bitch.”