“Very sure. Here.” He gave them each a fifty. What I could have done with that money. “You can leave now. She’s fine by herself. Have a good time.” To me. “Five minutes.”

“Take your time.”

“Do you want anything? Are you hungry?”

“I’m fine.”

He held up his hands and disappeared behind the door.

Amber gathered up her belongings, giving me an expression that wavered between confusion and awe. I knew what she was thinking. Who is this ponytailed bag lady with the strange feline yellow eyes, dressed in oversize chinos, a black ribbed crewneck sweater, wornsneakers, and a threadbare peacoat? Her clothes look like they came from a thrift shop.

In fact, they did. Right now, Chris was paying tuition not only for my medical-school education but also for Gabriel’s private schooling, as well as his piano lessons with a very sought-after maestro. Chris was paying my rent, my utilities, my child-care needs, and our health insurance. He paid off my undergraduate loans and gave me whatever spending money I asked for. He never questioned what I needed. His largesse allowed me to be job-free so I could concentrate on Gabe and my studies exclusively. I kept a microscopic watch on where each dime went.

I had known Chris for almost nine years. We met in high school back in my native Los Angeles. I had been incredibly naive in every sense of the word, and I think that was why he was attracted to me. My face didn’t hurt, either. Things progressed at a very messy pace and I thought I was in love. By the time I wanted to cut bait, it was too late. I was pregnant.

By now, I was aware of what Chris did, although we never discussed it. Donatti was a newsworthy name, and from time to time, I came across it in print. When Joseph Donatti had initially been indicted for murder six years ago, Chris had also been indicted as a co-conspirator. Six months later, his charges were dropped for insufficient evidence. Eventually, Joey was acquitted. The picture of Chris and him hugging had made the front page of the Trib. I had seen several sidebar articles about Chris’s magazine and the implications about his pimping and pandering. Nothing ever stuck.

No, we never talked about what he did, but we both knew what he was.

Ten minutes later, he accompanied two young boys and a girl out of his main digs, his arm around the girl, talking to all of them in whispered tones. The girl sneaked a sidelong glimpse at me. I smiled, but she did not. After everyone had left, he motioned me in but put his finger to his lips. He picked up his ubiquitous bottle of scotch and we walked into a sizable but windowless office—neat as expected— with lots of security equipment. A ceiling fan added some air to the place, but the fluorescent overhead lighting was harsh. When he saw me squinting, he turned it off and elected to go with a soft pole lamp. I sat on one side of the square table; he lowered his body into a cushy chair on the other side. He gulped some booze, then followed it with an Evian chaser.