Heather had it all, and then some. More than money. She had the constant, unconditional love and support of two exceptionally well-educated parents, each with their own vibrant careers, Dad as a litigator and Mom as a professional investor, a rare woman at the top of the venture-capital business who helped ignite the biotech boom that was one of the bright spots in an otherwise war-worn economy. Heather was beautiful, in a stereotypically American way, a naturally blond and blue-eyed icon of Western white femininity, and also in a more classic way—chiseled and international, with her natural looks enhanced by the kind of grooming, wardrobe, and diet that privilege affords. Every time Donny had seen her, she had that sort of rich-girl tan that reminded him of a perfectly browned marshmallow. Maybe because she was outside so much. She was a great athlete, on the soccer and tennis teams, winning second in the girls’ singles at the state tournament her senior year in high school. The boys loved her, though most were also secretly afraid of her, which was fine with her. The girls loved her too, and mostly envied her.

One of the other girls was with her the night of the dinner party. A friend you could tell was something more, a dark-haired French exchange student who was on the soccer team with Heather. They showed up just in time for dessert, which was served by another French-speaker, the Haitian chef named Aimée whom Helen had hired as the guest worker in charge of her kitchen. They lit up the room with the glow of health, very fine edibles, and the sacred sex of pure-strain teenagers. Heather already knew who all the guests were, greeted each in turn, introduced Chantal, and produced two more chairs when Dad invited them. They talked about the game that day, Dad bragging about the goal Heather scored and Heather bragging about Chantal’s assist. Lou opened some fancy German dessert wine that tasted like grapes that had been preserved in Alpine ice from an epoch before air pollution, maybe even before cities. His guests soaked up that libation somehow less enthusiastically than the vibrantly red-blooded youth—like vampires, Donny had thought, even as he himself indulged—but you could tell Heather was in charge, and controlling the dose.