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And I felt the worst thing I had felt all day, which was hope.

* * *

The salad came and went. Harold explained the provenance of every organic leaf on it.

Rhoda told the story of finding Zephyr — a story in which she had done most of the finding and I featured as a sort of grateful courier — and I let her have it, because a con is at its safest when the mark is telling it for you.

"A documentary is so exciting," she announced. "Gregory flew him in from — where is it you're from, Zephyr?"

Rule two. No countries.

"Zephyr is from where the question stops being interesting."

Rhoda put a flat hand on her chest and did not speak for four seconds, which is the longest I have ever known that woman to be voluntarily silent.

"Harold," she said hoarsely. "Harold."

"I heard it."

Across the table, Lance drained his glass and held it out sideways for more without looking at anybody.

And it was going beautifully. That is the thing I need understood. Rhoda was falling in love with Zephyr. Harold had the hopeful, undefended look I had already decided not to think about. Benny had gone back to his iPad. Blaine was participating in the dinner he was hosting like a man fulfilling a contractual obligation.

Then Rhoda said, "Zephyr. Before dessert. Would you do the thing you did with me?"

And Billy Truman looked around at the very rich people seated at that table and did what an improviser does when the audience calls for the bit.

"Of course," he intoned. "But not you, Rhoda. You have been seen already."

He set down his fork. His eyes went around the table — past Harold, past Lance, past Steven and his phone — and stopped on the one person there holding the most and showing the least.

"Him," said Zephyr Amaranth Aeolian, looking directly at my ex-husband. "The groom. May I?"

And under the table, out of sight, I put my hand flat against the walnut and thought, with perfect clarity, in a voice that sounded exactly like Martin's:

It is not too late to simply not do this.

"Please," said Blaine, and set down his napkin. "Go ahead. Zephyr."

Chapter Nine

Blaine

I’ve been cross-examined exactly twice in my professional life, both times in depositions where I was the client rather than the counsel, and I did not enjoy either occasion. But I understood the rules. In a deposition there is a transcript. A record. There is a person in the corner typing every word, and if the questioner overreaches, your lawyer says objection, and the objection is preserved.

There is no stenographer at a dinner party. That is the entire problem with dinner parties.

"Before I begin," said the man calling himself Zephyr Amaranth Aeolian, "I would ask everyone to keep breathing. People stop, when someone else is being seen. It becomes very loud in here." He touched his own chest, indicating, presumably, the room's collective sternum. "Loud for me, I mean."

My mother inhaled audibly, which I believe she understood to be compliance.

"Take your time," I said.

I would like the record to reflect that I was not nervous. I was interested. There is a species of professional pleasure available to a litigator watching a competent fraud work, the way a locksmith enjoys a good burglary. He was going to perform, I was going to catalogue the technique, and at the end of it I would know a great deal more about what my ex-husband had brought into this house.

He began the way they all begin, which is with a question shaped like a statement.

"You are the one who handles things."