A man walked out of the yacht’s lower cabin and stepped onto the polished teak deck.

He wore a crisp white cable-knit sweater and tailored tan slacks, with expensive leather boat shoes and no socks.

It was Mark.

He walked to the stern and checked a heavy mooring line.

He didn’t look like the man who sat in my dining room eating roast chicken on Sundays.

He looked like a wealthy man living in a different world.

He looked younger than thirty-eight.