“I’m sorry, Grace,” Madeline said. “I wrote it out of desperation. I was so blocked. I spent the money on the stupid apartment, and then, when I sat down to write, the only story that came to mind was yours. I fought the urge for a while, but I was worried about money. I tried to get my fifty thousand back from Eddie, but I couldn’t, and I was angry about that, and frustrated, and scared. But you’re right. I had no business using your story. And that’s why I told my editor I couldn’t publish it. She was really, really pissed off. She loved it.”

“She did?” Grace said.

“It’s a good novel, Grace. It’s a real love story. Maybe you should read it.”

Grace regarded the manuscript skeptically. “I don’t know about that,” she said.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Madeline said. “And, even though you’re angry about my book, and even though I’m angry about what Allegra did to Brick, I am here with you in your study. I am here, Grace.”

Grace looked at Madeline and dissolved into more tears. “What am I going to do now?” she said.

“Take a deep breath,” Madeline said. “Tell me about Eddie.”

“I’ll tell you about Eddie,” Grace said. “But now I don’t trust you! You have to promise me you won’t…”

“Grace,” Madeline said. “I won’t.”

EDDIE

The most important person in his life now was his new attorney, Bridger Cleburne. Bridger worked at a very large, prestigious firm in Boston, but he hailed from Lubbock, Texas, where he had been the star pitcher on the baseball team that won the Little League World Series in 1984. Bridger used his childhood glory days as a point of commonality with Eddie, “Fast Eddie,” the holder of so many track records at New Bedford High School.

Eddie didn’t care about his track records or about Bridger’s role in the Little League World Series. He needed Bridger to get him out of trouble.

But Eddie’s “situation,” as Bridger called it—a very long word, in his Lone Star State drawl—wasn’t an easy fix. It turned out that one of Eddie’s cleaners—teeny, tiny Elise Anoshkin—was still a few months shy of her eighteenth birthday! A minor, an illegal minor! It was all looking dire for Eddie. The FBI had been watching the house since the second week of the “shenanigans”—another long word for Bridger—and a wiretap had been installed. The evidence was damning.

At first, Eddie thought he’d been turned in by Glenn Daley. He was sure Barbie had either knowingly confided in Glenn or had let some hint or clue slip during the heat of passion. Then, crazily, Eddie wondered if Benton Coe was to blame. Possibly, Benton had been looking for a way to get Eddie out of the picture so he could marry Grace. But Bridger had told Eddie that there were two informants, neither of them Glenn or Benton. One was Eloise, Eddie’s secretary! Apparently, she had needed her paycheck so badly because her “situation” was that she had turned Eddie in: Eloise had overheard Barbie on the phone with one of the potential clients early on. Eloise had contacted her son-in-law’s brother, Officer Dixon at the Nantucket Police Department, and the police had started watching the house.

The other, more dangerous informant was the thirty-year-old billionaire owner of the house. He had given the FBI full access to install surveillance equipment.

How had the owner found out? He had bumped into Ronan LNW from DeepWell at the bar at the Bellagio in Vegas. Ronan had been wearing, of all things, a Chicken Box hat, and when the owner asked Ronan about his connection to Nantucket, Ronan said that he rented an unbelievable house on Low Beach Road in Sconset. Imagine the owner’s delighted surprise when he found out Ronan rented his house. What were the chances? The owner bought Ronan a glass of twenty-five-year-old Laphroaig, and from there it wasn’t hard to imagine that Ronan had leaked like a sieve and told the owner just how much fun he’d had in that house.

The owner wasn’t angry about the immorality of the situation. But he was furious—being a cutthroat businessman himself—that Eddie hadn’t given him a share in the profits.

Now, no matter how one looked at it, Eddie was going to jail. The feds had evidence on Barbie as well, but if Eddie made a deal, Barbie would be spared.

And so Eddie received a sentence of three to five years at MCI-Plymouth. Number 13 Eagle Wing Lane was repossessed by the bank, as were both of Eddie’s commercial properties, including the offices of Dr. Andrew McMann, D.D.S.

The house was paid up until the end of the month, but Eddie was going to advise Grace to sell it. She could buy something smaller and use the difference to send the girls to college and pay back Madeline and Trevor.

These decisions were all made quickly, in a matter of days. Nadia and the other girls were on their way back to Kyrgyzstan.

It could have been worse, he supposed. Three to five years could become two years with good behavior. MCI-Plymouth was a far cry from the Plymouth County Correctional Facility. Eddie would have a TV in his cell, which would be a single, and the food was supposedly sourced from a nearby farm cooperative; there were barbecues held once a month in the state forest. There was a gym where Eddie could start an exercise regimen, and an infirmary with a full-time nurse practitioner, who could, possibly, find a way to cure Eddie’s chronic heartburn. Most important, there would be other white-collar criminals, whom he might, someday, sell houses to.

These things only slightly ameliorated the anguish caused by going to jail. The shame of it was enough to kill him. Now everyone knew that Eddie Pancik was an underworld king. He was a pimp. He could barely bring himself to look at the twins. What would their lives be like at school? What would the other kids say? Their senior year would be ruined, when it should have been the best year of their lives. Eddie decided the right thing to do as a father and a man was to formally apologize to them. He did this the morning of his sentencing, in the hours before he was to plead guilty to seventeen charges of sex trafficking, harboring illegal aliens, tax evasion, and corruption of a minor.