The thing was, Bobby had often been tender and funny. He made a really good pesto sauce. Once they’d played mini golf and he’d crawled through a spiky hedge to retrieve her ball, when she very easily could have gotten a new one from the girl working at the counter. He used to make pancakes for Katie every Saturday morning, which was sort of a cliché of good fathering, but in fact the pancakes were sensational, and he never burned the bottoms. In bed they had an incredible connection—incredible. Sometimes, even now, she flushed when she thought about that. And, worse, she missed it.

The waiter at Mad Martha’s wasn’t even twenty, and it would have been unseemly for a woman of Sherri’s age—a mother! A Derma-You employee!—to let herself be attracted to him. But the glimpse of his bicep, the hollow below his cheekbone when he smiled, his firm, tan calves: all of these things made her wonder something that she hadn’t allowed herself to wonder since she and Katie had first set foot in that terrible motel that smelled like old cheese and despair. What she wondered was this: Would she ever have a man in her life again? Would she ever have sex again? It didn’t seem fair for her to have to give up sex altogether because Bobby had been involved in something so reprehensible. But how, exactly, would it come about, the sex? She lived in a town where everybody seemed already to be coupled off, marching two by two like animals onto the ark. Would she continue to wake day after day alone in the bed in this half-house with only Katie for company?

She took a bite of her breakfast burrito; it was the size of a small country and absolutely delicious. Maybe she and Katie should adopt a dog. Maybe Sherri should join Tinder. Was she too old for Tinder? Probably she was. Were people on Tinder looking for a slightly worn single mother with a secret past? Probably they weren’t. She sighed.

“I think we should do some updating,” Katie was saying as she worked her way through her pancakes. “To the house? Don’t you think it would be fun to do that, Mom? Maybe we could get a rug for the kitchen floor, like Morgan has. Something really bright. And some throw pillows for your bed! Wouldn’t you like to have some pretty throw pillows on your bed? They have them at Homegoods, do you think we should go to Homegoods?”

“Maybe,” said Sherri, turning her attention back to Katie. “Sure, we can go to Homegoods.”

“Today?”

“Why not?” Sherri was feeling flush, with the new job and all. “We’ll go today, after breakfast.” Bobby would never have wanted Sherri shopping in a Homegoods. He loathed discount shopping—he called it “shopping for other people’s castoffs.” She’d liked that he hadn’t wanted her to have other people’s castoffs.

“When’s your first day at work?” asked Katie.

“July sixth. In the evening.”

“The evening?” Katie looked stricken. “What will I do? Will I stay alone?”

“Will you be okay if you do?” Sherri asked.

“Yes,” said Katie’s voice—but her eyes told a different story.

“We’ll figure something out,” said Sherri. “I promise: we’ll figure something out.”

While they were waiting for the bill she pulled out her phone and texted Rebecca. I forgot to get Alexa’s number from you ?? (she added the slightly chagrined emoji, to convey that it was probably her own fault). RE: Babysitting.

The first time Sherri found something was an accident. She was in Bobby’s office, looking for a stapler, and she dropped the papers she was holding. They slipped right out of her hands, almost like they wanted to lead her to something. When she bent to pick them up, she saw that the floor vent register under his desk chair was slightly askew. In her attempt to straighten it—Bobby was fastidious, she knew he wouldn’t want anything out of place in the house—she pulled at it, thinking she had to take it all the way off to put it back on straight. After she removed the register, she saw that four of the large floor tiles slid out of place too.

And underneath was not the place where forced hot air came out in the winter. Underneath was a hiding place, sort of a tunnel.

Of course she’d really known before that, hadn’t she? Maybe not the specifics, but she knew there was something going on. Something untoward. From the very beginning, there was so much money. None of the wives talked about where the money came from, they knew that a simple trucking business couldn’t make money like that unless it was trucking something very, very illegal. Drugs or jewels or people.

The wives didn’t let themselves think too much about it. They definitely didn’t talk about it. They spent it, and they enjoyed it—they practically bathed in it—but they didn’t talk about it.

There was so much of everything. Clothes, cars. A vacation at a five-star resort in Mexico where Katie played in the pool while Bobby and Sherri drank champagne that cost four hundred and fifty dollars a bottle. Sherri didn’t even blink when Bobby ordered it. When she drank it, it tasted like money. They had friends with yachts; they had friends with shares in private planes and vacation homes they’d never set foot in.

The first time Sherri found the hiding place there were two boxes full of hundred-dollar bills in there. Full. There must have been tens of thousands of dollars, maybe hundreds of thousands. She didn’t count it. She just put it away, and she lined the floor tiles back up, and she put the register back too.