Layla wouldn’t have it easy in Stoney Hill Middle School, Tonya thought. She’d tried to show her daughter how the other half lived and learned so that Layla would have something to aspire to, so that she’d feel comfortable dreaming big and working to achieve whatever her mind could imagine. But all she’d really done was show Layla what she couldn’t have.

Philip waited for a break in her sobs before saying anything. “Tonya, we have a guest suite on our top floor that isn’t in use. Why don’t you come see it?”

Tonya stopped crying, not out of gratitude but out of fear. Was Philip taking her up on her earlier, desperate flirtation? She’d meant to suggest that they could work something out, but she hadn’t really intended to follow through with it, she told herself. In her experience, the suggestion that sex might be in the offering was often enough to make men do what she wanted.

“Is your wife home?” she asked.

Silence answered her question. Tonya felt her eyes refill with tears. How desperate was she? Would she really? Was that all she had to offer?

A grumble sounded on the other end of the line. “You should meet her,” Philip said. “Maybe we can work something out.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

RICK

Seeing the house made Rick angry. Most Brooklynites crammed their entire lives into apartments scarcely bigger than a McMansion kitchen. Even the relatively affluent like himself—or, perhaps, his former, non-divorcing self—worked, raised children, and cared for pets inside spaces far less than two thousand square feet. But here was Philip Banks, failed restauranteur, with three entire floors and his own garage.

“See what I mean?” Frank snarled beside him. “This is the guy you want to talk to, this guy using our fucking money to pay the mortgage on his fucking New York palace.”

Technically, Philip had been using their investment in Coffre to cover the monthly lease on the entire restaurant space. According to Nate, that was why his friend was claiming that all their cash had been spent, despite Coffre being open less than four months and earlier assurances that their capital contributions would enable the new restaurant to operate for nearly a year at a loss.

But Frank’s point was still valid. Cash was fungible. Philip had been misappropriating their funds, stealing money earmarked for the new, cool spot that they’d partially owned to pay for the no-longer-popular albatross that was his baby. It was thanks to Philip’s theft that Rick’s wife had become concerned about his investments and begun combing through the bank accounts, inevitably stumbling upon hotel room receipts and flower orders.

Rick exited the car into the dark, cold afternoon. The sun set around five in the winter, taking the day’s little warmth with it. He stood just beyond the reach of a streetlight, staring into Philip’s illuminated windows.