“And confusing,” he said. “I can’t make heads or tails out of ’em.”

My relief faded.

“Well. Best be going.” He drained the glass and placed it on the counter.

“Bathroom’s free.” I pointed.

He huffed a laugh and brushed past Alice, who still stood, stone-faced, at the door.

I CHANGED OUT of my suit into a casual summer dress, and at six, I climbed the stairs to Mark’s apartment. He hollered for me to come in when I knocked, and I opened the door to the aroma of sizzling beef. Mark had a personal chef named Kevin Ho who was more or less on retainer, and he was in the kitchen tonight, slicing and dicing vegetables on the counter. Mark was nowhere in sight.

I wandered into the living room. The apartment was decorated in the same clean lines and cool grays and blues as my apartment in the basement. It was in stark contrast to the opulent reds and golds and ornate trimmings of his public space. Those rooms were like the mane of a lion or the tail of a peacock, a display to impress—or, really, to intimidate—his visitors. But he didn’t need to intimidate anyone in his private space. The people he invited here already knew how formidable he was.

“Be right out,” he called from another room. “Fix yourself a drink.”

He’d been working. His laptop was open on the coffee table, and a document lay beside it. I skipped the bar and did a quick stealthy skim of the document. It was a draft settlement agreement in the Genco case. One section gave the shareholders he represented the right to appoint five new board members. I flipped a few more pages and confirmed that it was a nine-member board. So Mark would indeed have control of the company.

He came out as I was admiring a small stainless-steel nude on a bookshelf. He was dressed as casually as I was. More so since he was barefoot. “You’re right,” he said, taking in my empty hands. “We shouldn’t have drinks. This calls for champagne.” He gathered up his papers and conferred briefly with Kevin in the kitchen. I heard the pop of the cork, and Mark returned bearing two flutes.

“Here’s to exoneration,” he said, handing me a glass. He was still smiling as he uttered his next words. “Those filthy sons of bitches.”

“Mmm.” I took a swallow. The champagne danced on my tongue and brought a swoosh of memories: David in a VIP room at a dance club; David toasting me at our wedding reception; David shaking a bottle before he popped the cork and let a geyser of champagne spray over his head—that was the night he got his bonus check, the one that proved to be the last. And there was one final memory: while packing up to steal out of our apartment in the dead of the night, David had found the forgotten magnum at the back of the fridge, left over from the day of my layoff, and chugged it straight from the bottle. I thought of him now, clubbing in Tribeca. Staying in our old neighborhood. Pretending he could ever get that life back.