They had never been separate problems.

The forty thousand dollars had not gone anywhere near Camden’s failing company, as I’d half-hoped in my more generous moments.

It had gone to Lorraine’s deposits — the business-class seats, the private tours, the suites overlooking gardens I would never see — and to a scatter of Camden’s own purchases, dressed up in his consulting firm’s books as “client expenses,” as though a diamond bracelet were a line item.

For years I had told myself a comforting story in which Lorraine was the villain and Camden was merely weak — a decent man who couldn’t stand up to his mother, whom I could save if I was only patient enough.