“He was quoting Mom. Think about it. That’s Mom’s whole thing. I know she is a total pain in the ass,” Sarah continued. “But she also doesn’t take any bullshit. For her, saying what is true and right—or at least what she thinks is right—is more important than conforming and being well liked.” She laughed. “Her attitude gave me the courage to come out of the closet and raise a kid on my own, even though everyone else thinks it’s insane. And it should give you the courage to do what’s true for you. Forget about ATN. You were never going to win playing by rules you don’t believe in.”

She wanted to hug her sister. “Sarah, you’re such a good person.”

“You’re going to be great.”

As soon as they got off the phone, Natalie dialed her Mom, determined to keep her promise to Sarah. She left an apology on Noreen’s voice mail and stayed on the line for a moment before adding, “I love you.”

She hung up and felt overcome with exhaustion. It’s late, she told herself. You should try to get some sleep.

Resisting the urge to find a Xanax, she lay back, closed her eyes, and let her mind float. She replayed the events of the last two weeks. McChesty. That crazy decoy yacht. And Karima—her mysterious whispered tips. As she drifted into the memory of Karima’s smile and the scent of custom perfume, she felt a sting of shame.

The woman had tried to feed her a story and she’d failed to follow up. Failed to make sense of those tips.

Sallee LLC. What was its meaning? What had she missed? Why was Karima so solicitous?

Natalie’s eyes snapped open. Who are you kidding? No way she was going to be able to sleep.

Sitting up on the plaid sofa, she reached for her laptop and Googled who is Karima Sahadi. The site announced twenty-three million search results. There were spreads about the Sahadis’ houses in St. Barts, Oman, Tahiti, Colorado, Palm Beach, the Hamptons, and Sardinia. Interviews about her art collection. Stories about her legendary parties. There were pictures of Karima looking thin and radiant with every living president and recently deceased dictator on the planet.

Glancing at the clock—just after midnight—Natalie made eye contact with the sad cowboy.

You lost. You quit. Stop torturing yourself, the cowboy seemed to say.

“I want to know what I missed,” she replied out loud, pulling her laptop onto the couch. And I’d rather read about Karima’s life than spend the night thinking about mine, she thought.