Gavin tried, tried, tried to remember. He was hyperaware of every detail of his crime; he would have been paying attention when he wrote this letter, right? But that was the problem: he could not remember typing in the figure $50,000, and he did not remember double-checking it before he took it over to Lock’s desk for a signature. Gavin did not remember typing $49,000, either, but this was the amount he subconsciously attached to the donation. Gavin’s heart was slamming in his chest. He was growing warm and he had to yank his tie free of his neck—it was strangling him—though of course he hated to do it, because there was nothing quite as distasteful as a man with a sloppy necktie. Gavin was positive now that if he had been working from his subconscious, if he wrote the letter on autopilot—which he must have, since he couldn’t remember the most important detail of the letter—then he might have typed in $49,000 instead of $50,000. Lock did not read the letter because he never read the letters—they were all the same—and because Gavin had been looming over Lock’s desk with barely concealed impatience. He wanted to get to the bank, he wanted a cigarette, and some of the letters Lock was signing had been waiting for twelve days. Lock had not noticed the amount. He was tired from his vacation, and if Gavin could put his two cents in, he seemed distracted, as if he had left his ability to focus back in Tortola. Plus, there was never a reason to check Gavin’s work because Gavin never made mistakes. It was bound to happen sometime, though, and it had happened today. Gavin set his spoon on the plate resting under his soup bowl. He could not eat another bite.

Rosemary noticed this. In so many ways, she was like his mother—Eat up, eat up!

“Are you finished?” she said. “Is it not good?”

“I don’t feel well,” Gavin said. He could not get caught! Okay, say a representative from the women’s shoe company did call. Chances were, Gavin would answer the phone. But what if the call came while Gavin was at lunch? What if the call came before Gavin got in in the morning or after he’d left in the evening? What if it came in while he was in the bathroom or on another call? Lock would answer! The sheer torture of waiting for that phone call would be enough to land Gavin in the funny farm.

The waitress came to clear his plate. Gavin said, “It was very good. I just don’t feel well.”

Rosemary leaned forward. She was attuned to people who didn’t feel well. Her husband, Clive, had gone to bed early one night, complaining of heartburn, and had died in his sleep.

“Have some water,” she said.

The most crucial thing, the thing that was pressing with more and more urgency in his chest, and lower, in his bowels, was for him to go to the office and check the letter on his computer. Because what if he was mistaken? What if the amount did read $50,000? God, he would be so relieved! He would offer to pay for dinner, he would do more than offer: he would slip the waitress his credit card and ask her to run it without Rosemary’s knowledge. Rosemary would be miffed (she always paid for dinner; in this, she was also like Gavin’s mother), but she would be touched, too. He just had to excuse himself, dash to the office, check his computer, and race back. His heart sank; that would take too long. Rosemary would grow concerned, she would check on him in the bathroom or ask a male waiter to check on him, and he wouldn’t be there—and how would he explain that? But staying here through his rack of lamb and then coffee and dessert was not an option.

He tugged at his tie some more, this time for effect. “I hate to say this, but I think I have to go home.”

“Home?” Rosemary said.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Oh, dear,” Rosemary said. “You’d better go then, yes. Don’t stay another second because of me . . .”

“I hate to walk out on you like this . . . ,” Gavin said.

“Go! I’ll tell our waitress what’s happened and settle the bill. Unless you want me to drive you home. Do you want me to drive you?”

“No!” Gavin said. He was hunched over, trying to convey the immediacy of his distress. “I can drive. I’ll just . . . I need to get home.”

“Go!” Rosemary said. “I’ll call in a little while, to check on you?”

He kissed her cheek. “You’re a doll. I’m so sorry to—”

“Go,” Rosemary said.

He humped through town, head down, pulling hasty, nervous drags off a cigarette, muttering to himself, praying this was all a mistake, a bad suspicion. Did all criminals suffer from such paranoia? They must! Forty-nine thousand dollars. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that he’d blown it. But maybe not. God, he couldn’t stand it. He hurried.

He fumbled with his keys at the door. His hands were shaking. He was not particularly quiet; it had not occurred to him that Lock would still be in the office—it was nearly eight o’clock—but when Gavin was halfway up the stairs, he heard voices. Lock was here. Shit! Gavin considered turning around and leaving, but no, he couldn’t: he had to check that letter tonight! So what could he tell Lock he was doing? Getting a phone number, maybe, or an e-mail address. Would that be plausible? As Gavin rifled through possibilities in his mind, he became alerted to the fact that something unusual was afoot in the office. There was bumping and banging, heavy breathing, a woman’s voice. Gavin stopped where he was on the stairs and flattened himself against the wall, the way he’d seen people do in the movies. Who was in the office? He and Lock were the only ones who had keys. Gavin cocked his head, straining to hear. The noises seemed to be coming from the conference room. A woman talking, or crying, or moaning. She was saying Lock’s name. So Lock was here. A second later, Gavin heard Lock say, clear as a bell, “Oh, Claire, Jesus!”