The Chief opened the door and walked with Eddie out to the parking lot. His cruiser was parked next to Eddie’s Cayenne. Thank God Eddie had gotten the thing inspected!

Eddie hesitated before heading to his car. Did the Chief want to talk to him?

The Chief said, “So, how are things with you, Eddie?”

“Oh,” Eddie said, “can’t complain, I guess.”

“You’re building those houses on Eagle Wing Lane?”

“I’m trying,” Eddie said.

“And are you still taking on that high-roller rental on Low Beach Road?” the Chief asked.

Eddie wanted to look the Chief in the eye, but he couldn’t. He stared at the chipped shingles on the side of the building.

“I am,” Eddie said.

“All of those guys are big spenders, huh?” the Chief said. “Fifty grand a week.” He whistled.

Eddie’s heart was in red, raging turmoil. He nodded.

The Chief clapped Eddie on the back. “Well, nobody deserves to rake in the spoils more than you, my friend. You’ve been in the business a long time. You hustle faster than anyone I know.”

These sounded like words of encouragement. But were they?

“What you did when we sold the MacAvoy house was incredibly generous. I’ll never forget it, and neither will Andrea. And neither will Chloe or Finn.”

“Well,” Eddie said, “it was the least I could do.” He held up his bag of Tums in a kind of salute, then headed for his car.

“Have a good night,” the Chief said.

“And you,” Eddie said. “Enjoy that milk.”

Eddie waited in his Cayenne for the Chief to drive away before pulling out his phone.

He wanted to call Ronan LNW and cancel. Running into the chief of police only moments before doing the worst thing he had ever done or hoped to do? It meant there was trouble. The police were watching the house. Possibly Ronan LNW was an informant for the FBI. Possibly, Eddie was being set up by Glenn Daley, who was Rachel McMann’s boss at Bayberry Properties and who would like nothing more than to see Eddie and Barbie go belly up.

But then Eddie calmed himself. Ronan worked at DeepWell in Las Vegas. It was a legitimate company; Eddie had googled it. Prostitution was legal in parts of Nevada, so that was probably what Ronan LNW was used to. To him, it was no big deal.

Okay, man, no problem, no problem. I was only asking.

Cancel? Half of Eddie’s conscience and half of his good sense said yes.

But it was so much money. And he was on the verge of drowning. Chapter 11—or worse.

But… money would do him no good in jail.

He popped three more Tums.

He had two daughters and a very sweet wife at home. If Grace knew he was doing this, she would kill him, then die of shame herself. She would tell Eddie that she was relieved her grandmother Sabine hadn’t lived to meet Eddie, because he would in no way have passed muster. She’d told him this once before in anger, and the hurt had stuck with him. Why wasn’t he good enough? Because he’d grown up in an apartment over Ramos Dry Cleaners on Purchase Street in New Bedford, where both his parents worked sixteen hours a day? Because he’d lost his track scholarship to Plymouth State after failing English senior year and then failing last-chance summer school? Because, instead of going to college, he’d come to Nantucket Island and gotten a job washing dishes at the Straight Wharf, then became a buser, then a waiter, then waited on the right person, a man named Winthrop Bing, now dead, who liked the way Eddie hustled and asked if he wanted a chance to get into real estate?

You hustle faster than anyone I know. That was what the Chief had said.

The Chief liked Eddie because six years earlier, when the Chief’s best friend, Greg MacAvoy, and his wife, Tess, were killed in a sailing accident, the Chief, who was the executor of the will, had to sell the house. Eddie came up with a buyer in three days at full asking price—and he’d waived his commission. It was the one and only time in his career that he’d ever waived a commission. He did it because everyone else in the community was reaching out to help Chloe and Finn, the orphaned twins, so Eddie joined in, forgoing the twenty-one thousand dollars due to him, despite his natural Machiavellian proclivities.

And look! The Chief still remembered his generosity. The Chief thought he was a good guy. Well, he was a good guy. What he was about to do was illegal, yes, but he wasn’t actually hurting anyone.

It was legal in parts of Nevada.

Legal in Amsterdam. Were the Dutch bad people?

Cancel?

The bald truth was, he needed the money. On top of everything else, Madeline wanted her fifty grand back! That had been an uncomfortable conversation.

Eddie decided to call Barbie. He wasn’t sure if she would be at home or if she was away. As close as they were, she rarely shared her weekend plans. On the company calendar, she used the shorthand P, for personal—which meant anything that wasn’t Island Fog Realty business. Her desk was littered with pens and notepads from fancy hotels—the Plaza and Waldorf, the Drake in Chicago, the Four Seasons in Santa Barbara—but if Eddie asked if she had stayed at the Four Seasons in Santa Barbara, she would tell him it was “P.” Barbie didn’t believe in social networking or sharing her whereabouts or being part of a community, real or virtual. She existed to please herself.

She answered on the first ring. She was reliable that way.

“Sorry to bother you,” Eddie said.

Silence. She wouldn’t even say if he was bothering her or not.