Chapters (59)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Praise
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- January
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- February
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- March
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- April
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- May
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- June
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- July
- Forty-One
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Author’s Note
- Ladies of the House - Reader’s Guide
- Questions For Discussion
- Excerpt
“The Post Magazine commissioned a long-form feature on your father. His rise. His...crash. The cover-up. The editor thinks this kind of story is in my wheelhouse.”
“The editor assigned this to you?” I’d expected this kind of coverage of my father after his death—the excavation of his past, the turning over of all the stones—I just didn’t imagine my best friend would be the one to write it.
“I’m still a freelancer, so if I don’t want the story, I could turn it down.”
“You could?”
“I could.”
I frowned. “It also sounds like you don’t want to.”
Atlas blew out a breath. “It’s a big assignment. An important one.”
“But, you know me. I mean, we’re...close. Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”
“My editor actually likes that I know you, that I originally met you covering your father all those years ago. Makes it gonzo. Reporters are becoming part of the story again, especially when it comes to true crime. Not that your father is a criminal—”
“He is.”
“I’m not explaining this correctly.”
His explanation, actually, was fine. It was me that was a mess. I stood, walked into my tiny galley kitchen. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t offer you anything to drink. I have water. And red wine. Oh, there’s a can of soda in the back of my fridge. You can have it, if you want.”
“You’re upset.” He peered at me from his spot on the sofa.
“No.” I looked around my kitchen. There was nothing I wanted. “I’m just conflicted.”
“I understand.” He rose. “I’m also conflicted. It’s a good assignment. But I—You’re my friend. I don’t want you to be upset with me.”
That word—“friend.” How I wanted to ring that word’s neck. “I don’t want your career to suffer just because a giant scandal has ripped through my family, leaving death and destruction in its wake.”
“Then I won’t do it.”
“Stop.” I opened a cabinet and then immediately forgot what for. “You have to.”
“Daisy,” he said, “are you trying to talk me out of this or into this?”
What was I trying to do? I certainly didn’t want to take away a good career opportunity from Atlas. But would I really be comfortable with someone so close to me writing about my father, possibly my mother, and maybe even—Oh.
This was a scary thought.
Slowly I closed the cabinet door and met his eyes across the room. “Will I be part of the story?” I asked.
“I want to do this story right, Daisy. I think I’ll be able to. I’ll be able to be fair. If you want to be interviewed, have your side on the record...”