Scottsdale has always had its rich ($25 million compounds in the hills, golf courses that cost fifty dollars a hole), but during the boom a lot of folks in the middle were looking up, stars and dollar signs in their eyes. Ronnie made a fortune on those kind: people eager for better schools and fancier zip codes and more expensive groceries. Nobody seemed to care if the houses were shoddy in their bones—the plumbing unreliable, the windows leaky, closets framed off plumb—so long as the driveways were long, the pools deep, the ceilings high.

By summer, Tami’d quit Taliesin and Ronnie was focused on Salt River—by his math it was not worth working on other projects until the market improved or the contractors got so desperate they undercut themselves by half again. Waiting game, he was fond of saying, tapping his temple and flashing a white-toothed grin. Meanwhile, Ronnie’d weaseled his way out of most of the rest of his bad situations before the shit really hit the oscillating fan. He was one of the few local developers who could claim that, who didn’t eat his hat. As for Salt River, the tribe had plenty of money, and was expecting plenty more revenue from the casino, so construction proceeded apace. Ronnie expedited paperwork, smoothed out construction contracts, “liaised” with city hall (probably greased some palms, too, but Tami’s not one to ask questions). He visited the site every Tuesday, hard-hat tours from when it was a rat maze of inlaid irrigation pipes to a horseshoe of concrete slabs to a steely skeleton to done (not once inviting Tami to join, either).

“That coffee?” He raises his left eyebrow like he guesses it’s not. It was a thing they did sometimes, slipped whiskey into coffee cups and walked around the fancy outdoor mall. Camouflaged rum cocktails in soda cans and visited those cowboy art galleries downtown. Drinking on the links. He was a member at three of the better golf clubs in town—a developer’s perk—and she wasn’t a bad shot. They’d giggle like teenagers, and somehow those sunburned days slipped by.

“Yes, Ronnie.” It comes out sharper than she means it to.

“Fine.” He makes himself comfortable in the seat next to hers. “How’s the house?”

“You made me quit, remember?” she says, thinking of Frank Lloyd Wright’s winter compound. Ronnie didn’t like it when she wasn’t available, sneered at the word retail like it was something stinking on the bottom of his shoe—and sniffed at nonprofit like it didn’t smell much better. When they split up, Tami called the HR gal at the house and told her she was available to come back. No spots open, the woman said. Tami asked if she could sub. I’ll make a note of it, she said, her tone bristly enough that Tami wondered if she knew about the missing scarves, the solid-silver cufflinks.