Now he was on his way back to the beach house with just over three grand in cash, but what he really needed was thirty-five hundred even, to get himself out of this mess. Three grand was close, and he was lucky he’d gotten that much before his account was frozen, but close didn’t cut it with these kind of guys. And he couldn’t just not show up at their place at noon—he had already ruled that out. Not showing would be the worst possible thing he could do. The guys had the address of the beach house where Scott was staying, so not appearing at their place would almost certainly mean they would come looking for him there when the family was around. There would be a scene. Things would get ugly.

Scott’s current plan, adapted since he hadn’t been able to withdraw the full amount, was to take them the cash he had and offer up his watch, which was worth twice the remaining $380 balance. Still, he might end up with a black eye—it would depend on what sort of mood they were in and if they’d been drinking. A black eye wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world; he’d say he got whacked with a stray golf ball or had gotten into a fight with some drunk at the car show. Scott wasn’t a fighter, Lisa knew that, but it would probably fly. His biggest hope was that even if a black eye was involved, these guys wouldn’t demand his diamond-encrusted wedding band, like they’d threatened to the day before, because Scott knew that showing up at the house without his wedding band would send Lisa into absolute hysterics.

Scott knew his wife already suspected an affair.

If only it were that, he thought. Wouldn’t that be easy? You could end an affair with some lame excuse and a snap of the fingers. Right? Scott had never cheated in all their years of marriage, but he imagined it was easy to cut it off with a mistress, bada-boom, some tears, some insults or threats, some guilt trips, then it was done. But the sort of mess Scott was in . . . And it was a brand-new mess every few weeks, to be fair, depending on the size of the debt, and each one entirely his own doing, but still, a gambling debt wasn’t the sort of trouble you could weasel out of with a dozen roses.

Shit, shit. Scott pounded the steering wheel with his palms as he waited in line to cross the bridge onto Fripp Island. You dumb shit. Why couldn’t you quit when you were ahead? He had been up twelve hundred dollars after an hour and a half of poker the first afternoon at the beach, when he’d met these guys. Four of them, trashy real-estate hotshots, down from Newark for the week. They had rescued Scott from the golf course before the storm that afternoon, had him back to their condo, couple cocktails, couple hands of poker. Everything great, all good fun. Scott had suggested playing for money, nothing serious, fifty dollar buy-in. Everyone had been on board, and Scott had gone up quick.