Siobhan went on several pinecone-collecting missions, all of them bewitching and romantic. She wrapped herself in a candy-striped merino scarf and carried a woven basket as she wandered through the firs on cold afternoons, with the promise of Christmas carols at home, and a hot buttered rum to warm her up. She was a girl from a fairy tale in those moments as she gathered only the largest, most perfect pinecones, the only person for miles, alone on this pristine part of the island.

Imagine her surprise when, on her way home with an overflowing basket of plump piney beauties next to her, she passed Claire’s car. Siobhan was heading out of the evergreen forest and Claire was headed into it. Claire was driving way too fast, so that when Siobhan came around the bend on the dirt road, Claire’s car was right there on top of her; they nearly collided. Siobhan gasped at the near miss, then gasped again at the fact that it was Claire’s car, Claire at the wheel with somebody in the passenger seat—a man. Lock Dixon. Or at least Siobhan thought it was Lock Dixon. All she could say for sure was that the man was wearing earmuffs and Lock was famous around town for wearing earmuffs (pole up his ass). Siobhan knew Claire recognized her car—how could she not?—but Claire didn’t stop. She and Lock Dixon barreled into the deserted forest that Siobhan had just left.

Siobhan drove on, stymied. In the months since Claire had agreed to chair the gala, there had been two or three meetings a week, always at night. Jason complained to Carter, and Carter passed the complaints on to Siobhan. Seems a bit excessive, doesn’t it? All those meetings. Don’t you ever chair anything like that.

Never, Siobhan said. It’s too much bloody work.

What were Claire and Lock Dixon doing driving into the forest together at one o’clock on a December afternoon? They weren’t going to collect pinecones, that was for sure. Siobhan considered following them. What would they be doing?

Later that afternoon, Siobhan called Claire at home, and Claire said, “Hey, how are you?” As though nothing had happened.

“Did you not see me?” Siobhan demanded.

“See you what?”

“Up at Tupancy. Coming out of the woods. In my car. Jesus, Claire, you nearly ran me over.”

Claire laughed, but Siobhan was her best friend, had been for fucking centuries, and she could tell it was a fake laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I saw you, Claire,” Siobhan said. “And you had Lock in the car.”

Again, the laugh, one key off-tune. “You’re crazy, baby.”

Siobhan huffed. This was insane! She would know Claire in a dark cave with a paper bag over her head. “So you’re denying that you were at Tupancy today?”

“Tupancy?” Like Siobhan was crazy. “I haven’t been to Tupancy since the dog died.”

She was denying it! But why? Claire could have come up with any number of plausible stories. Claire could have told Siobhan anything and Siobhan would have decided to believe it—but to deny ever having been there when she had nearly crashed into Siobhan was an insult to the friendship, and stupid besides. It could only mean one thing: Claire and Lock were having a torrid affair. This was betrayal at its most exquisite.

But no, Siobhan thought. It just wasn’t possible. Claire was too much the choir girl. She had been born with a nagging conscience. She felt guilty when she missed a week of church, when she killed a housefly; she felt guilty when it rained. Having an affair was not something Claire was capable of.

So what, then, was going on? Siobhan meant to find out.

When he was younger, he used to pinch himself all the time. The money came rolling in, but it wasn’t the money that was exciting; it was the girls, so many girls, and guys, too, for that matter, and limousines and rooms at the Four Seasons with their fluffy towels, their waffled robes, the Veuve Clicquot chilling in a silver bucket, the bouquets of roses, a garden’s worth of roses thrown onto the stage. It was the deference, the respect shown to him by everyone from record execs to heads of state to Julia Roberts—she and her husband were fans and owned every album. Of Max West’s, Matthew Westfield’s, a kid from Wildwood Crest, a scruffy beach town in New Jersey. Down the shore, that was where Matthew had grown up, with a father who took off when Matthew was five, and a sainted mother who worked as the church secretary and who got most of her information about life outside Wildwood from the magazines she picked up at the grocery store checkout. What was he, Matthew Westfield, doing onstage with seventy thousand people waving their arms in front of him? They were worshipping him; he was no longer a punk kid from New Jersey, but a god. He could have whatever he wanted—women, drugs, guns, an audience with the pope (he went once and tried to persuade his mother to join him, but she wouldn’t travel to Italy, not even for the Holy Father).

He was in Thailand now, in Bangkok, hunkering down at the Oriental Hotel. Outside his room were two butlers (they had these for every guest) and two armed guards (these were only for him, since he had cavalierly suggested that a Muslim girl in the crowd in Jakarta rip off her hijab for him, inciting Muslim rage and necessitating a quick exodus from the country). It was winter in America but hotter than Hades here in Thailand. It was too hot to do anything but sit in the air-conditioning, drink the chilled champagne, smoke the delightful Indo weed they took as a parting gift from Java, and just generally seek oblivion. Because wasn’t it the sad truth that Max West, a person who could have whatever he wanted, wanted only oblivion. Some time in the great black box. A poor man’s peace.